The Weight of Living
by Lithophene
Summary: Toughing through the grit alone's one way to stay alive, but with his supplies running low and his shaking getting worse, Marshall can't keep running. He finds himself taking a chance on some strangers because, hell, honestly? He's better off dead than alone. Eventual Daryl/OMC.
1. Restless

**This story contains spoilers for the TV show. Also: slow build. Trust first, romance second.  
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**Part I: First Light **

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**Chapter 1: Restless**

**"**When you live in the dark for so long, you begin to love it. And it loves you back, and isn't that the point? You think, the face turns to the shadows, and just as well. It accepts, it heals, it allows.

But it also devours.**"**

— _Raymond Carver.__ Late Fragment._

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Maybe this is the day he's meant to die.

Fuck. He's tired. Tired of running, tired of being afraid of the dark. Ever since everything went to shit, it feels like he's just chugging through like running on borrowed time. He's got the scar to back It up. Maybe he's just running on borrowed fucking luck and he's finally run out. Just how many more sleepless nights is his body supposed to handle? Scared of every guttural sound that echoes from the shadows he can't see? Not many more, he figures. Especially given the situation he's stuck in.

His breaths come quick and ragged, and his legs feel just about ready to give out under him. Man. He'd been reckless. No – _fuck_ – he'd been stupid. It's too fucking easy to become careless when the days start to blur into one unrecognizable memory. There really isn't anything to ground him to the now. Nothing but the bone-chilling fear of trying to make it through another day alone. Usually it's a quiet thing, like a whisper in the breeze, but… it isn't quiet now.

His heart's pounding in his chest. He can't… he can't catch his breath. Panic's starting to settle into his nerves. He wants to run – he _needs_ to run – but his body just won't fucking move. He can't… He can't keep at it anymore. Not like this. His hands are shaking something fierce and just how is he supposed to aim if he can't even keep his them steady? He closes his eyes and tries to will his breathing steady. Three breaths. That's all he gets before he lifts his chin up and opens his eyes, letting the patchy rays of sunlight gleaming through the leaves warm his face.

The wind whips at the short waves of his dirty blond hair and just for a second he can mute out all the groans echoing around him. He won't go out like this. This can't be how his story ends. Civilization might've gone to shit, but nature? Nature's still alive and kicking. If it can keep at it… So can he. That's the one thing that gives him comfort. Even if it's darker, even if it's quitter and scarier than any horror movie he might've seen when he was younger, the world's still going, and he has no plans of giving up just yet.

He has no plans of dying. Not yet. Not here. There's got to be more than just… this.

Everything snaps into focus then and he lets out one final shudder before managing to still his hands. There's a rotting woman snarling only a few feet ahead of him, but she isn't the only one, oh no. He hears more of them coming from all corners. He takes a step back before lining up his shot and letting his arrow fly clean through its skull. That's one arrow gone. He reaches for the quiver on his hip and nocks another arrow before taking another step back, shifting his gaze around him. Fuck. This isn't good.

They're all round him. He turns in place, sizing up the challenge. There's at least six that he won't be able to outrun. Damn it… He'd fucked up big time. Fuck. Fuck! Rage starts to stir in his chest and he narrows his eyes. It can't end like this. Not after all the paranoia, all the fear, and the loneliness, and the people he'd watched die without stepping in. He can't die with that on his conscience. He just can't. He refuses to.

"Fuck you!" He hisses as he looses his arrow into one of the approaching walkers, watching with a sick satisfaction as it crumples to the ground, and hops over it.

He grunts when he realizes his compound bow won't be of anymore use up this close and shoulders it before unhooking the climbing pick on his belt and gripping it tight. He gives it a twirl once before swinging at the second walker, digging deep into its skull with a wet crunch. Marshall grunts as he yanks his weapon back roughly, rewarding himself with a spray of putrid blood. He pushes the disgust back as he keeps moving. At least he has his scarf covering his mouth.

He's got a clear path for now, but he still has more walkers following him than he can handle… and not enough arrows to take them out. He lets out a tight breath as he glances down at his quiver. He's only got three arrows left. Yeah. He can't take the risk. Three's already too few, but it's better than none. He nods stiffly to himself, making up his mind. If he can't take them out, he'll have to lose them. Somehow. Even if he's running on dry.

"Fuck…" He murmurs. He's exhausted. He's already been running for… he doesn't even know how long. He'd lost track and that alone's enough to have him breaking out into a sick laugh. Oh man. Everything's fucked. It doesn't seem like he's got any other option but to run some more – even if it hurts. Even if it makes him want to break down. He has to keep going because there is no way in fucking hell that he's going to lay down and let himself get torn apart. There's got to be more than this out there, somewhere.

With that tiny sliver of hope in mind, he pushes himself roughly around a tree before setting off on a jog as quick as his aching body lets him. He clenches his eyes shut, breathing in roughly as he keeps running even as his legs scream at him to stop, but he can't. He can't stop. Stopping means dying, and… He's not ready. He's not ready to die and he grits his teeth until it hurts. Eventually, he just… can't keep at it anymore. He crashes against a tree and leans against it for support. He can barely keep his breathing steady.

Clumsily, he rounds the tree and slides roughly down the bark before shaking off his rucksack. There's only one thing he can try now… And it's a risk, but he's got no choice. The distance he put between them won't buy him much time before they catch up to him and he's… he can't run anymore. He rummages through it, feeling around the bag and huffing when he realizes just how much shit he lugs around with him. Then his fingers feel it: a kitchen timer.

Marshall lets out a shaky breath as he brings it up to his lips and gives it a quick, dry kiss. Thank God he'd grabbed it thinking it might come in handy. Now's the time to test it out. Molly'd taught him that enough sound could draw the biters away like clockwork. Hell, he'd been with her when she rung the church bells in Savannah to draw them out, but this? A kitchen timer's not a bell. He just prays it's loud enough to save his ass. He seals his rucksack and slides it back on before pushing himself up to standing.

The timer's set to go off in thirty seconds. He sucks in a deep breath and takes a step away from the tree, lobbing it as far as he can, away from where he's heading. Then he presses himself against the tree and waits as the seconds tick on by. The barks rough against his exposed hands and he can feel his blood pumping through his ears with every breath he takes. He doesn't dare to move. Then he hears it, a mechanical ringing echoing in the distance. Oh man. He just hopes it works.

A few minutes pass before he figures it's safe enough to keep going. He peeks around the corner and lets out a shaky breath when he spots nothing but leaves and shrubs. Thank God. He glances up past the leaves before smiling faintly. The sun's starting to set. He needs to find somewhere safe for the night. With a huff, he pushed himself away from the tree and takes tired steps forward. He's not sure where he's going, but… hopefully there's something nearby. A cabin, or a shack, or… something. After a few minutes of trudging aimless, he spots what looks like an overgrown backyard.

Edging around the house, he makes sure the street is clear before climbing up onto the front porch, taking careful steps. He reaches for the front door slowly, twisting the knob and giving it a gentle shove open before drawing his pick and smacking the frame of the door twice loudly. Taking a step back, he takes careful breaths, readying himself for a fight. Seconds pass, eventually minutes, without nothing coming out so he makes his way inside, shutting the door behind him quietly. This was a decent home once, but judging from the look of the torn up furniture and clutter scattered over the floor… the house had long since been looted. The first floor's clear.

He makes his way up to the stairs, idly wondering who used to live here before shaking the thoughts away. Slowly, he checks every room before letting himself relax. The house is clear. He steps into the master bedroom before hooking his pick back onto one of his belt loops. He frowns under his scarf when he spots his reflection on a large cracked mirror looming over a messy dresser. He looks like shit, drenches in sweat and covered in dirt and blood (fucking disgusting). A shaky breath escapes his lips as he tugs his scarf down and grabs the cleanest part of the hem of his shirt and rubs his face as clean as he can get it. It isn't much, but… it's something. His fingers glide over the cracks on the mirror for a few seconds before he sighs and pulls away.

He wanders over the dusty window and presses his forehead against the cooling glass, watching as the sun just barely peeks out from behind the tree line in the distance. Maybe one day he'd get to watch it one day without being worried about his safety, but he wonders a lot of things lately. Sometimes he doesn't even know why he keeps trying. Pure animalistic instinct, he figures. He grimaces as he eases away from the pane. He's exhausted, but… even in the room he's in, he doesn't feel safe, even in this room. Even as tempting as the bed may be.

Marshall runs his fingers along the frame of the window, finding the locks and snapping them off. The windows slides open and he's halfway through it when he glances back over his shoulder and spots a knitted blanket strewn on top of the bed. Hm. He's not going to lie… it looks comfortable. He stares at it for a few seconds before stepping back inside and grabbing it, clambering back out the window shortly after and hoisting himself up onto the roof. Being in a room sets his nerves on edge… and they're pretty frayed as it is. It's not the walkers that scare him. It's people. People can break down doors. People can catch him off guard. Knowing that no one's likely to check a roof for a survivor's enough to set his mind at ease.

There's a nook where two slants meet and he settles down there, perching his gear nearby so they don't slide off. Once he's comfortable, he finally undoes the scarf wrapped around his neck, thankful for the cool air that hits his skin. Absentmindedly, he scratches at his stubbly cheek. His eyes are locked on the starts starting to shimmer in the darkening sky. The one good thing about the end of world? There's no more light pollution to block out the stars.

He stays that way watching the flickering lights in the sky until there's no trace of sunlight left. A lot of times he wonders what it'd be like to be up there, away from all the troubles that just breathing brings nowadays. It's depressing to think about, but it's a better thought than acknowledging the quiet of being alone. He thought he'd be fine alone, but… lately he's been feeling himself… crack, as though he were fragmenting and fuck if that doesn't scare him. He huffs softly, pulling the blanket up closer to his chin.

He curls into it, rubbing circles idly over the burn scar on his wrist beneath. He kept away for a reason. He'd gotten bit. He'd cauterized it, yeah, but the fear of all the fucking unknowns terrified him. What if he turned in the middle of the night one day? It happened months ago, but the thought still haunts him. Maybe… Maybe he's fine. If nothing's happened yet, then maybe it'd be safe to try and find a group again. The thought brings a smile to his lips and helps ease him into a comfortable sleep.

Something's better than nothing, even if hope is scary.


	2. Faith

**Chapter ****2****: Faith**

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When he wakes up the next morning, Marshall isn't in any hurry to get going. It isn't as if he has an appointment to catch. No, it's just that… sometimes, when he just lies on his back and lets the warmth of the sun hit him full on, he feels as though he can forget. Even if it's only for just a few minutes, he's able to drown out all the thoughts that lag behind him just about every day. Shit, maybe it's a crazy thing to think, but sometimes it feels as though the sun itself was trying to keep him a little bit sane.

He scoffs at the thought. Yeah. It's a dumb idea, but it's one of the few things that manages to help him keep a grip on himself. He needs the distractions; anything to keep him from recognizing the pit threatening to overwhelm him because sometimes he can almost _feel_ himself crumbling. It's just another thing that terrifies him. Would he be better off dead or insane? Would he be better off alone or taking another chance?

With a soft sigh, he stretches out, basking in the soft touch of the sun on his chest for one last minute before the sounds of the world start to come back into focus. He scratches at the scruff of his chin, squinting as he glances around. He frowns slightly, honestly having no clue what to do with himself. The sun issn't directly overhead yet. If he was to take a guess, it's probably around 10 o'clock, which means that he has more than a few hours of daylight left.

He huffs as he grabs his ragged black button up and slides it on, not bothering to button it up entirely. There isn't much to do asides from what he always does: move on and survive somewhere else. Something's bound to go wrong if he stays put. It's what always happens. He thinks of the food and water he has left in his bag; there's maybe a few cans and some other food he'd managed to find along with a few bottles of water left. It's not much, but it should be enough to last him a few days if he doesn't manage to find anything else nearby.

As if on cue, his stomach rumbles loud enough to snap him out of his thoughts. He wishes he could just worry about things other than food and not getting bit, but damn it, he isn't far-gone enough yet to start forgetting. How can he forget? Every breath is a reminder that he's still living in a world where the dead started walking. He reaches into his bag and pulls out some jerky and bites into it angrily.

After Anna… well. He can't bring himself to show his face to any other survivors he's stumbled upon. He'd been avoiding them. The one time he didn't trust his gut, he almost got – No. He shakes his head, pushing the dark memories back down into their little vault. There'd been some people that needed help. He wanted to feel bad for not helping them, but they were lost causes. Most were other stragglers, wandering about like he was. Except for the fact most of them happened to be screaming with a pack of biters right on their tail. He just had to make sure he didn't watch what happened to them. At least then he can pretend that maybe they got away. He didn't have the arrows to play hero and there was no way in hell he was going to risk getting bit a second time.

He'd gotten lucky. The sleeve of his jacket managed to keep him from getting a chunk of his wrist bit off, but next time… If there _is_ a next time, he knows he'd be a lost cause, just like them. Hell, he'd been angry at Anna for a long time for treating him like that – running off and leaving him for dead - but now he's doing the same exact thing to others. Except they weren't even bit.

He feels disgusted with himself when he thinks about it. He's only killed two men himself, but how many more did he choose to ignore? How many groups did he choose to sneak past rather than take a chance and lend a hand? How many times did he choose to stick to the familiar and avoid the unknown? Too many, that's for damn sure. Sometimes it feels like his guilt is just a steady buildup of rocks piling on his shoulders except he _knows_ he's reaching his tipping point.

His appetite's gone now, but he forces himself to keep scarfing down the jerky. He can't risk not eating. Not eating means not having energy, and not having energy just might get him killed. It's a crude way of living, but it works. It's lonely, and it's methodical, but he's still alive and kicking. And that's what matters… right? He cracks open a half-empty bottle of flavored water and takes a long swig, trying to drown out the tang of the jerky. He's good to go.

Careful not to lose his footing, he stands on the shaky tiles and starts grabbing his gear. It's a shithead thing to do, but he puts on his leather jacket. Fuck, in the Georgia heat, he's almost like begging for a heatstroke half the time, but it kept him safe once so he puts it on out of habit. It's like his second skin, really. He puts his glove on next, straps on his rucksack, and hoists his bow over his shoulder. Lastly, he straps his hip quiver on next but he pauses when he notices just how little arrows he's got left. There's only three left. He lets out a shaky breath as he pushes his panic aside. He'd worry about that later. Yeah.

Unhooking his climbing pick, he steps over to the edge. "C'mon. Just like Molly showed you."

In one swift motion, he climbs down the side of the house, using the pick to keep himself steady. Once his feet hit grass, he can't help but frown. Molly had been a lifesaver, but she was also a huge regret. If they hadn't brought that herd to Savannah, he wouldn't have gotten separated from her. She wouldn't have run off without him. He wouldn't have had to abandon the city on his own. He drags his hand across his face as he steps toward the street, trying to get Molly out of his head, except… something draws his attention.

It isn't the silence, no. He's glad he didn't hear any walkers moaning or groaning. No, it's something he's looking at. Off in the center of the street there's a lone butterfly fluttering in circles. He cocks his head at the sight, watching it for a few seconds, expecting it to fly off. Only it doesn't. Something in him feels off. He draws his pick again, fingers rolling over the grip anxiously. He takes a few steps towards it, inching closer and closer before it flies off, putting the same amount of distance between them again. The thing's just… floating there, as if it wants him to follow it.

Trying to focus on it makes his vision start to blur, but he can't keep away. It's there for a reason, right?. Things like this don't happen just because. So he keeps at it, occasionally trying to reach out for it with his right hand, hoping to catch the fleeting little critter only to have it swoop away. Everything else seems to dull into gray. He's barely aware of following it into the woods. All that matters is trying to catch it, but every time he reaches out, he grabs nothing but air.

Nature seems to quiet down into a low hum. He isn't sure how much time had passed; he isn't able to tear his eyes away from the golden orange wings. It looks so familiar and he feels warm just seeing it, so he lunges forward one last time, clasping his hand shut around it, but when he opens his hand to finally cheer his little victory, there's absolutely nothing there.

He stands there slack jawed and confused as sound starts to rush back to him. The chirping of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves only make him grimace. There's nothing around him. No walkers, no animals... no butterfly. He's as alone as ever, standing amidst trees, covered in sweat and panting. A quick glance up answers the question he doesn't dare ask yet: it's been at least two hours.

Christ… he's losing it. He's losing himself. He brings a shaky hand up to his face and holds it there, pinching the bridge of his nose. It's one thing to be scared. Fuck, he's almost always scared, but this? This is a whole new level of _wrong_. He followed a butterfly - of all things - into the woods… a butterfly that apparently didn't exist. He digs his fingers into his skin, trying to keep the panic he feels building up at bay. He needs to find something to do, needs to get his mind off of _this_.

He's ready to turn on his heels and leave when the sounds of gunshots ring through the air. Instinctively, he draws his bow and drops to a crouch. He pushes all his thoughts aside and listens. More shots ring out – they aren't far. Hell, they sound dangerously close. Every nerve of his body tells him to run away, to be a coward like he always. So he does. He runs. Except this time he's running toward the sound rather than away from it. Something in his head's telling him this is what he came here for, and as much as he wants to snarl at that little voice in his head, he decides to listen to it. No more running away.

It's a short distance before he starts to see it: the faint outline of what looks like a tower cutting through the tree line. He sees the fence next, and he manages to put two and two together. This was probably a prison, and also the source of the gunshots. He clings close to a tree just at the edge of the clearing, taking a moment to pull his scarf from his back pocket and wrap it around his face. If they're fighting walkers, he isn't going to get any putrid shit in his mouth.

He tightens his grip on his bow as he creeps closer, trying to get a good look at what the situation is down there. There's a large field behind the fences… and there are walkers clambering out of a truck right in the middle of it. That's all he needs to see to understand. Whoever's at the prison is under attack, and the sick fucks are using the dead as weapons. The sound of more bullets snap him out of his thoughts.

On one of the inner towers there's a gunman keeping a group of survivors pinned down. Marshall spots maybe four figures huddled behind cover… and one body in a pool of blood. There are children, he can tell that much, and that's enough for him to make up his mind. No more running. No more hiding. He grabs an arrow from his quiver and nocks it, taking a few more steps out into the clearing to line up his shot. He takes a slow breath as he looks down his scope and calculates the distance. It's a long shot. The last time he'd taken a shot that far away was during one of his tournaments before the world went to shit.

He breathes out, and adjusts his aim, satisfied with the arc. He waits for the wind to still before clenching his jaw and letting the arrow loose. Only two arrows left. It pierces through the air to its intended target, and so long as the gunman doesn't move, Marshall's sure it will land. And it does… barely, but it catches the side of the gunman's head, and his body drops limp. He can't help the satisfied smirk he has under the scarf. It's only when gunshots start peppering around him that he realizes just how exposed he'd made himself. He dives into some of the tall grass when he hears a shot whistle dangerously close to his head and grunts as he lands roughly onto the ground.

"Fuck… fuck!" He mutters as he crawls further into the grass, trying to find some sort cover. It's times like these that he wishes he'd keep a gun, even if he doesn't really know how to use them. _Fucking stupid._ The bullets finally stop whirring past, and he takes a moment to check himself. Everything feels right and his bow isn't broken. All's good, except… his neck feels warm. He brings a hand up to his neck and pulls it back only to find blood on the tips of his fingers.

The sting hits him quick once he sees the red. He feels the warm rivets sliding down the side of his neck, but it isn't gushing. Not really A few tentative touches later and he finds the source: a long gash on the side of his neck where a bullet grazed him. He figures if he's not bleeding more than that, he'll be fine... for now, at least. He drops his hand down to the ground, placing his palm flat against the dirt, preparing himself to get up and move. There's an eerie silence. There's no more gunfire, but now there's a chorus of moans and groans.

He gets up slowly, bow at the ready. He can't see the gunmen outside the fence anymore, but he hears the sound of engines driving away… and one getting closer. One look back at the tree line and he sees that walkers are starting to pour out in numbers. Way too many for him to try and double back from where he'd come from. The only option he has is to get inside, and right now there's only one option. There's no going back. He turns his attention back to the fence, hurrying over until he spots another man near the corner of the fence. The man starts shooting at the chompers that got too close to him, but he doesn't seem to have noticed him yet. Then he runs out of bullets and is holding back not one, but two biters.

Marshall doesn't hesitate. He didn't have the liberty of doubt right now, not with walkers closing in on them. He grabs an arrow from his quiver and nocks it, taking quick aim and letting the arrow loose right into the creature's head. Only… his arrow isn't the only one sticking out of it. Out of the corner of his vision, he sees them. Two men hurry out of the trees, one of them toting a crossbow. Marshall keeps his distance, nocking his final arrow. The three men seem to know each other, and once the first one was clear, all eyes fall on him.

Bow locks sights with crossbow as the two groups drew on each other. Marshall grimaces at the situation he's in. "We don't have time for this." He growls, voice low and muffled.

"Who're you?" The first man asks icily.

Marshall grunted loudly, annoyed by the timing of the questions. "Really? … Fuck." He pauses, more than aware of the dead closing in from his peripheral. He tugs down his scarf before answering, "Marshall."

"You one of the Governor's?"

Marshall raises a brow, confused. "Who?"

The one with a prosthetic saunters closer, drawing Marshall's aim with him. He smirks smugly, "Now, now, Officer Friendly, this ain't one of the Governor's boys. "

'Officer Friendly' stares at him, blue eyes boring into him with purpose. Eventually he relents, shaking his head before glaring at him, "You try anything and you're –"

"Dead." Marshall interrupts, "I know."

The officer's the first to put down his weapon before walking over to the fence. The other two follow suit and Marshall can't help but clench his eyes shut for a second to process this. He's alive. Not bound, not captive, just… alive. For now at least, but he only has one arrow left. How's he supposed to survive off one single fucking arrow?

"Hey," A thick southern drawl calls out to him. It's the crossbowman. "You're gonna need these."

Marshall looks up at the crossbowman's squinted gaze before noticing his outstretched hand. He's holding out two arrows, one of which he recognized as his own (the orange fletching stands out). The other is homemade from the looks of it and a little too short for him to risk shooting. Marshall furrows his brows in confusion. Is a stranger trusting him?

"Thanks."

"'s nothin'."


	3. Bared Teeth

**Chapter ****3****: Bared Teeth**

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A caged animal on display… that's what he feels like. They took his weapons, a 'precaution' they'd said. Even now as he is, dirty and covered in drying blood and sweat from fighting alongside the others, they don't really trust him. It makes sense, he knows. He's just some guy that walked right into them while they were being attacked by lord knows who, but knowing that does nothing to ease his frayed nerves, especially considering he'd _just_ helped their leader (apparently) carve a way back to safety.

Instead, he chooses to submit and let them sit him down on a table before going back to talking amongst themselves. He can see it in all of them: they're scared. Nervous. And it only seems to make the air feel muggier than it already is. He tries to keep his eyes down, hoping to not draw too much attention to himself. He's the black sheep that stumbled into the flock. It'll probably be better to just wait it out. Don't plead, he reminds himself.

"What do we do with 'im?" The quiet question snaps him back to attention. It's the crossbowman who, pointing at him with his chin.

Marshall looks up, catching the glances of the two men. It's a small thing, the way the crossbowman asks, but it's enough for him to start to see the power dynamics in the group. The officer's definitely in charge.

The latter pinches the bridge of his nose for a few seconds before mumbling, "Go get Hershel."

The other man nods slightly and stalks off hurriedly with a soft grunt. He doesn't catch himself staring until the officer walks right up to him. As he sits, hunched over, the other man stands a fair bit taller than him. It was only when he locked eyes with the other that Marshall starts to feel nervous. He's seen that look before.

"You part of a group?"

It's a simple question, but something about it makes it feel like his guts are tripping over themselves. "No." There's a brief silence between them where he shifts uncomfortably. "Just me. I've been alone for a while now." He bites at his lower lip, "Ran into some people a few months back. It didn't work out."

The man nods before dropping down to a crouch, meeting Marshall on his level. Gray blue eyes lock with hazel in a silent debate. His brows furrow, eyes setting hard like steel, "How many of them did you kill?"

The question catches Marshall off guard. He panics for just a second, before he reels it in, but it's enough because before he knows it, the officer's looming over him with his pistol drawn and digging into his forehead.

"Rick!" a woman calls out from the side. Neither of them break their gaze, but Marshall hears the crowd forming.

Rick shakes his head as if rattling thoughts loose before repeating his question, "How many?"

Marshall raises his hands slightly in defeat, trying to keep himself composed. "Two."

"Why."

He hesitates. The memories he'd long buried suddenly start to rattle in their vault. He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to remember how sick he felt when those hands touched him. He doesn't need it, doesn't need the reminder of how he'd wanted to die when he thought he'd turn while he was alone. His gaze falters for a moment before looking back at Rick, his eyes red and hateful.

"They were cannibals. They tied us up, baited us. Talked about us like we were cattle." He lets out a shaky breath, "I heard them rape a girl, and one of them tried to..." The words catch in his mouth. He can't say it so he just grunts and glares at the man hovering over him.

Neither of them move.

"Rick." This time it isn't a woman calling out for him from the side. The crossbowman stands next to him, looking almost ready to snatch the gun away from him if he needs to. Marshall sees it then: the reason he's afraid. Rick's broken, and it's almost as though he can _see_ the cracks running through him. As much as he wants to be angry at him, to hate him for making him remember what happened, he can't. Not anymore.

Rick pulls back slowly, taking a few steps before holstering his gun. Shock, anger, and disgust cycle on his face. Then he just looks lost. Marshall can't help but wonder what brought him to this point. Loss is something they'd all experienced. It was almost a prerequisite of this new world. If you hadn't lost sometime, you were either lying or crazy. There isn't much room for attachment. It's a dark, scary world. Pain is everywhere. Loss is just something you either get accustomed to… or you lose yourself. Rick looks like he's stuck in between.

He huffs softly, letting his hackles drop. To think the day had seemed to have had such a promising start. He manages to bite back a sigh when he finally notices the other people standing nearby. There are about seven others about, all of which seem to have their eyes on him. Shit… Now he's starting to feel self-conscious. Then it makes sense.

Shit.

They'd all heard him say it. No wonder the woman with short, gray hair's looking at him like that. It's pity. Pity and sympathy. His chest feels heavy – he doesn't want to go into this conversation right now. Or any time soon. Or at all. It's as though the all the barriers he'd built up in his mind were starting to falter and he just feels… exhausted now. He cups the side of his head to try and will his troubles away, but that only seems to spark more concern among the group.

Before he knows it, the crossbowman takes a step toward him and not so gently moves Marshall's head from side to side, probably checking to see if Rick had roughed him up. A flare of irritation flashes through him, and he swats the calloused hands away. Christ, he's shaken up, not incapable.

"Hershel," the man grunts, pulling his hand back, "'s all yours."

An older man makes his way over to him on crutches. It's a sight that makes Marshall raise a brow curiously. Trailing behind him's a younger girl, no older than eighteen he figures, carrying a bag of medical supplies. She smiles softly when their eyes meet. Marshall can't help but smile in turn. Little gestures mean everything, sometimes.

He has no fight left in him. He's in their home, and he'll play by their rules. Hershel's methodical, asking him to pull back his shirt a bit so he'd have a better area to work with. He introduces his assistant as his youngest daughter, Beth. He has to hand it to the older man, he was still nimble with his hands to patch him up as quick as he did.

"You got lucky. A little deeper and you'd have bled out on the grass."

Marshall winces as the older man wiped over the tender flesh around the stitches. Almost instinctively, he reaches up with his spare hand to feel around only to have it snatched away by… Hershel, he thinks he heard his name was.

"I'm alive right now, that's what matters." He hesitates a moment, unsure what to say, "Thanks." He decides.

"It's not a problem."

"I mean it," He avoids looking at Hershel. He can almost feel the look he's giving him, and it isn't one he wants to face. "You've done more than I could've expected from, well… anyone."

"Were you really all alone?" Beth asks, innocently sweet.

"Yeah. It's not as fun as it sounds though. I haven't really talked to anyone in a while. Feels like I'm gonna bite my tongue on accident." He grins slightly, silently grateful to be talking to someone after months of being alone.

"Must've been scary out there…" Beth says, almost to herself.

"I guess," He lies. "I mean if you aren't scared, you aren't really human, I think. I'd be more worried if someone told me they weren't afraid more than anything. They're either lying, or they mean it. And if they mean it… Well." He doesn't finish his thought.

Marshall takes the silence that follows as an opportunity to fix his shirt and cover his exposed shoulder. He tacks on a few more buttons than he usually would for decency's sake. Beth seems content enough and packed up all the supplies back into the bag before kissing the Hershel on the cheek and striding off happily. Hershel's watching him like an owl, though.

"So," he starts and looked the older man in the eyes, "Rick. He's your leader?"

"Yes." Hershel nods.

Marshall squints a little, "Is he a good man?"

Hershel seems to frown under his beard, "Rick's a troubled man, but he's got a good heart."

Marshall hums quietly, pensive. The way he sees it, he only had two options. One, he can try and stay with this group, or two, risk everything and try and make it on his own. But for how long, he found himself asking. And it's true. How long can he manage on his own? The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes he doesn't seem to have a much of a choice. He'd helped them... in the middle of a firefight. He might as well have a target painted on his back now. Stepping outside's practically suicide.

"Alright." He says meekly.

Hershel doesn't seem convinced with his response, but before he can say anything, someone's calling him over to the cellblock for a meeting. The older man nods at him briefly before hobbling up and leaving him to sit alone in silence with only his thoughts to keep him company. It isn't a comfortable feeling, knowing that only a few feet away, in another area, decisions are probably being made about what they're going to do with him.

It sets his nerves on edge. Every minute that ticks by without the sound of the gate opening is another sixty seconds for him to feel uneasy. Shit, the idea of being told to leave is worse than the idea of him leaving by his own choice. Hell, it actually kind of scares him. With a grunt, he pushes himself away from the table, choosing to pace around instead.

"You ain't a hunter."

Marshall reaches for his pick on instinct, only to find himself grabbing the loop of his belt.

"oo, easy there," It's the redneck with a knife for a hand. He brings his hands up in mock defeat, "Jus' wonderin'. I mean ya got a glove 'n' everything. N'aw, you ain't a hunter." He walks closer from whatever corner he'd been hiding in. Everything about him screams rotten to Marshall.

"What do you want?" Marshall folds his arms across his chest.

"Nothin'. Jus' curious is all." He circles around him like a wolf stalking prey, except there's the chance he could be being honest. He isn't out to kill, not in here at least. "Maybe you was a rich boy who learned to shoot a bow and arrow."

Marshall scoffs, "You're full of shit."

"Easy," He grins wickedly, "What you was before don't mean shit. Heh, what matters is that you survived. Let me give ya a word of advice," Marshall raised a brow, "Leave these sheep. They don't got the numbers or the guns to win this fight. They're as good as dead."

"What makes you so sure?" Marshall shifts uncomfortable. A small part of him agrees with the redneck, and it makes him sick.

The other man spits on the ground, "You ain't seen tha Governor, kid."

"And you have?"

"Yep."

"So, what? You want me to just sneak off while they aren't looking?"

"If you're smart."

Marshall grinds his teeth together and narrows his eyes at the redneck, "I'm done running. They need some help? I'll lend a hand."

"Maybe you're more stupid than I thought."

"Maybe." He shrugs, before walking toward the gate the others went through. "But I might as well stick with them through this."

The redneck laughs darkly, "What makes ya think they'll even let ya?"

Marshall glances over his shoulder, a determined look in his eyes, "You think they can afford to say no?" He takes the silence that followed as a no.

Rick and the others are locked in their cellblock and the boy keeping watch didn't seem too keen on unlocking the gate for him, so he does the next best thing and presses himself against the bars. He makes it in time to hear the conversation start to get a bit heated.

"We're not leaving." Rick says, toting a rifle.

"We can't stay here." Hershel counters.

Ah. That's all Marshall needs to hear to catch on to what's being discussed. They're considering the possibility of abandoning the prison. It's a tough call, he can tell that much. The prison's the most secure place he'd run into since the turn. If it was up to him, he'd never want to leave this place… even if the walls almost feel as if they want to close in on him. Too many voices are speaking at once - it's hard to keep up with who's saying what.

"What if there's another sniper out there? A wood pallet won't stop one of those rounds."

"We can't even go outside."

"Not in the daylight."

"Rick says we're not running, we're not running."

Marshall shakes his head, composing himself. "I wanna help." He called out.

Maybe it isn't the smartest thing to do, speaking out like that, but he doesn't feel like playing any games. Not with a threat right outside the walls. "Look, out there I had to make a choice: help you or go. I chose to help, and you," he jabs his finger through the bars in Rick's direction, "trusted me out there. I wanna help, I do, but I can't do that sitting on my ass in the corner." He glances around at the other faces, mentally cataloging them, before stopping on Rick. "All I'm asking is that you trust me again. Let me help."

The Asian man speaks up first, "Why should we trust you?"

Marshall shrugs, wrapping his hands around the bars. "If I'd wanted to hurt any of you, I would've done it outside when we were all fighting. Plus," He starts grinning, "I got that guy on the tower for you."

The girl with short brown hair shifts her weight to one leg and crosses her arms. She purses her lips lightly, "That was you?" He nods. "We saw the arrow and figured it was Daryl." She looks up at the crossbowman who leans against the railing on the catwalks. He shakes his head at her. She blinks once before turning back to Marshall. "Thank you."

He opens his mouth, ready to ask who the hell that is, when he remembers the handmade arrow he has slotted in his quiver. Ah. So the crossbowman's called Daryl. It's a relief to have a name to put on the ragged man. He'd have to ask him later about that arrow.

Rick seems unsure of what to say, so Marshall presses on. "You might as well spray paint a target on my back if I leave here. They already saw me, shot at me even. They think I'm a part of your group."

"'cept yer not." The words come from behind him. It's the fucking redneck.

Marshall glares at him before turning back to the others, "You need the numbers. You said it yourselves. We're not running."

"N'aw," The redneck wanders around him and leans against the bars as well, "Better to live like rats."

He sees the way most of the members of the group tensed at the presence of the man beside him. Good. So it isn't just him that gets a bad vibe from him. How they'd let someone like him stick around was beyond him.

For a second, Rick seems to forget about him, choosing to focus on the other man, "You got a better idea, Merle?"

Merle nods, obviously eager to egg on the leader. "Yea, we should slip out of here in tha night and live ta fight another day." No one seems to want to listen to him. "I'm sure he's got scouts settin' up on ev'ry road out of this place by now."

Marshall didn't notice Daryl closing in from the catwalks, looking down at Merle. "We ain't scared of that prick."

Merle scoffs, "Y'all should be." That gets Marshall's attention. He pushes his irritation aside to listen. If he's gonna talk about who they were up against, it'd be better to listen. "That truck through the fence thing? Tha's just him ringin' the doorbell. We might have some thick walls to hide behin', but he's got tha guns and tha numbers. So go ahead an' take this lost pup with ya if ya want," Marshall narrows his eyes but says nothing, "but if he takes the high ground around this place…"

"Shoot," he presses his face close to the bars, "he could just starve us out if he wanted to. "

The girl with short hair's heard enough, "Let's put him in the other cell block."

"No," Daryl cuts her off before she could argue, "He's got a point."

She glares at him before shifting it at Merle. "This is all you. You started this!"

"What difference does whose fault it is?" Beth walks around the woman with graying hair, hurrying down the stairs, "What do we do?" Marshall wonders if that's fear he hears in her voice.

Hershel chimes in, "I said we should leave. Now Axel's dead."

Oh. Marshall feels uneasy hearing that. The image of the body lying in a pool of blood on the concrete flashes behind his eyes. Shit. Is he asking to fill a dead man's shoes?

"We can't just sit here." Hershel adds, raising his voice.

Rick has a blank look on his face, one that Marshall recognizes. He pouts, watching the man's movements. His whole body's tensing as if he's winding up and getting ready to set loose. He starts walking toward the gate, and to Marshall's surprise, Hershel starts shouting after him.

"Get back here!"

Hershel clambers onto his crutches and stands. Marshall can't help but bite his tongue after hearing that outburst. From what he'd gathered of the man, he's likely the most collected of them all. To hear him call out for Rick like that just tells him how far-gone Rick probably is. The silence that falls afterward from the others only vouches for that theory.

The older man's soon standing behind Rick. The way Rick almost seems to look through him sends a chill down Marshall's spine. "You're slipping, Rick. We've all seen it." There it is. "We understand why, but now is not the time. You once said this isn't a democracy," Rick starts to turn, some semblance of him returning, "Now you have to own up to that. I put my family's life in your hands. So get your head clear and do something."

Marshall feels as though he just witnessed something he shouldn't have. And it's true, maybe he shouldn't have. Not with the uncertainty of whether or not he'd be allowed to stay. It feels like learning something personal about someone you don't know beyond a name. Even if you don't want to, you start to care just a little bit, but that sliver's enough. Then you're fucked.

He pulls himself away from the gate when the boy unlocks it for Rick. He's expecting the other man to walk past him, but he stops to look at him. Really look at him. And then he nods. It's a short gesture, but Marshall can't help but wonder… Did that mean what he thinks it does?

Daryl claps his hands on the railing above, glancing down at him, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. "Welcome to the tombs."


	4. Monotone

**Chapter ****4****: Monotone**

* * *

Night is quick to fall on the prison. Even if he wanted to talk to the others, Marshall finds himself more often than not standing awkwardly with his hands digging into the pockets of his ragged jeans. Part of him wonders if he'd dig deep enough, maybe he'd find the answer to getting the folks at the prison to trust him more. It's like a thought that's wedged itself in the recesses of his mind and he can't pull it out.

It's past the point of a curious, simple want. It's almost a need now, fueled by the faint smiles he gets and idle chit chat. It's like a small ember in his chest getting fanned into growing. "We all have our jobs to do," Beth had told him before smiling cheekily, "You just have to find yours." That's something easier said than done, he figures.

Marshall sighs softly into the dark of his cell. It's small... secure. A few personal touches and maybe it could start to feel like something other than a cage, but that's exactly what it feels like. Only it's gilded under the pretense of safety… not that he doubts the group's ability to defend their home. It's just… something about the small quarters. He feels trapped, like the walls are going to close in on him. He can't even remember the last time he'd slept indoors. It's got him on edge.

He props himself up on his elbows from lying down and turns to sit up on the edge of the bed. He frowns slightly as he digs his palm into the thick padding. Maybe it's a silly thing to be stressing over, but it's too sudden a change for him. He'd gotten used to taking a moment every night before shutting his eyes and just watching the stars dance in the night sky. The only thing on top of him now is a gray bunk followed by a gray ceiling surrounded by gray walls in a gray building. It's suffocating, but he feels like an ungrateful prick for wanting to get outside.

Hell, Rick's group was willing enough to let him stay with them in their cell block (he chose a cell on the upper level) when they didn't have to. He'd overheard that they had another cell block cleared, probably the one they had him waiting in before they made it official that he was staying with them, but… apparently the only two inhabitants were now dead. It's kinda funny in a self-loathing way. They'd probably figured it would be better to have him with them than leave him all alone in an empty cell block full of ghosts, probably out of pity. The irony is that being alone might actually have eased his nerves this first night more than, well... this.

There's a knot forming in his stomach urging him forward until he finally can't stand sitting any longer. He steps over to the corner with all his gear and slides on his boots before crouching down to rummage through his rucksack. He grins faintly in the dim light as he pulls out a bent carton of cigarettes and a half-empty plastic yellow lighter and tucks them into his back pocket. If it wasn't for the fact he's trying to be decent around these people, he'd already have it lit in his mouth.

Out in the lower level, he can hear Beth and Maggie singing together in harmony. The girls can sing, he has to admit. Their voices bounces off the concrete walls and Marshall can't help the smile that crept onto his lips as he wonders if this is a common thing for them. It's nice, he figures, and cozy, seeing everyone huddled around some candles candles and spending the evening together. It makes the prison almost feel like a home.

The corners of his lips dip as he shakes the feeling off. Getting his hopes up would be one of the dumbest things he could do right about now. There's too many unknowns for him to even risk that. Hope is... scary, he admits to himself. The closest thing he can do now is take a drag of his cigarette and let the buzz wrinkle out the anxiety he feels building up.

His boots thud along the concrete floor, drawing a few quick glances from the others as he makes his way down the metal stairs. Carol gives him a small smile and nod from the crate she sits on near the base of the stairs before going back to resting her head in the palm of her hand. She's a kind woman with a strong soul; he'd gathered that much from his small talks with her. It's also in the way she carried herself. She's lost a lot and yet managed to become so much stronger from it. He envies her a bit.

Rick and Daryl are leaning against one of the walls near the small circle where Beth, Maggie, and Hershel sit. Marshall'd caught on that something's going on between Maggie and Glenn, but he figures he shouldn't pry, especially when the Glenn still has faint bruises healing in sickly greens and yellows on his face. Plus, he's got no business messing with lover's quarrels. He folds his arms across his chest as he makes his way over to the two men by the wall.

Daryl's the first to notice his approach, sharp blue eyes gleaming in the faint candlelight, "'sup."

"Hey." Marshall murmurs in response, not really feeling comfortable enough yet to join them in leaning against the wall.

Rick looks at him with tired eyes, "Kind of you to join us." The man seems better, though. There isn't any blank look in his eyes, and thankfully no high strung muscles ready to spring. Hershel's words must've gotten to him.

Marshall huffs a little, kicking at the ground with the tip of his boot, "Yeah," He draws out the word, peeking a glance at the other members of the group, "I was starting to feel a little cooped up."

Daryl hums with what he can only figure is agreement. It makes sense. Out of all the others, Daryl (and his brother, he remembers) are the only two that seem a little out of place. The way they talk, the way they walk, it all speaks of a life lived outdoors. Marshall isn't a hunter, Merle's right about that, but that doesn't mean he can't appreciate the open air. If the redneck even did that much. Right now, the air inside feels like it wanted to choke him.

Marshall clears his throat lightly, "Hey, Rick," He feels small at that moment, not wanting to look the other man in the eye, "Think I could step outside for a few minutes?"

He can feel Rick's gaze boring into him. It's a small request, really, but he's _technically_ a guest under their roof, and… maybe he's pushing his luck, but he has to ask. It's probably better to ask than risk freaking the fuck out in his cell. Much better. When he finally brings his downcast eyes up to meet what he expected to be a suspicious look from Rick, he finds the other man looking unnervingly neutral.

"Why?" comes the cool response.

His shirt's starting to feel tight around his chest, prompting him to drop his hands down to his sides, "I need -" _air. I need space. I need time._ He bites at his lip as he brings his left hand to tug at the hair on his nape, "- a smoke." He finally says. He doesn't notice his hands started to shake until he catches a glimpse of Daryl watching them.

A flare of panic runs through his nerves and he clamps his eyes shut, willing his body to cooperate with him at least this one time to cut that shit out. His hands tense unnaturally still, but when he opens his lids, he spots the hunter looking him straight in the eyes. Marshall balls his hands into fists and narrows his eyes at the other, daring him to say something.

What Daryl says isn't what he'd been expecting, and apparently neither was Rick. "I'll go with 'im."

Rick arches a brow at the hunter, "No," He raises his hand when the hunter looks just about ready to argue, "I'll deal with it. You get some rest – all of you" He adds, addressing the group.

No one says a word as they pull themselves from their spots and start to wander back to their cells. Daryl's the last to go, looking almost unsure of what to do with himself before letting out an angry huff and pushing himself away from the wall. Marshall locks eyes with Michonne from where she watches him from the shadows before turning to follow Rick. The way she looks at him sometimes only serves as a reminder to him that sometimes people are more terrifying than the dead themselves.

It isn't long until Rick leads him out to the small gated space at the entrance to the cell block. The second the brisk night air hits his face, Marshall can't help but smile in relief. He ignores the look Rick's giving him and puts as much distance as he can between them. It's bad enough that he isn't allowed to take a break without being babysitted, for whatever reason.

His hands are back to shaking when he fumbles to pull out the small box and lighter from his back pocket. He tugs out a cigarette and sticks it between his lips before shutting the box and tucking away roughly. It's easy up until that point, but the second he tries flicking the lighter on, he can't fucking manage to keep his hands steady enough.

Marshall grunts in frustration to the point he can feel Rick getting ready to help him out, but he doesn't want that. The thought alone is enough to get him to steady himself, and when the small flame finally lights, he can't hold back his groan of relief as he sucked in the first puffs of smoke. He's finally starting to feel his nerves loosen up when he hears Rick clear his throat behind him.

"This… shaking _thing_ of yours." Rick says, voice low.

Marshall furrows his brows, "It's nothing."

"You sure about that?" _Not really._

"I said it's nothing, Rick." Marshall lets out a shaky breath, "Really."

Silence falls over them for a while before Rick speaks up again.

"We're going on a run tomorrow. King County. There's an armory in the old sheriff's department that has the guns and ammo we need." Rick combs his hand through his hair, "I was going to bring you with us, give you a chance to prove yourself, but if I can't count on you to cover us–" He walks over to stand beside Marshall, trying to draw his gaze, "-if you compromise the safety of this group, I won't just leave you out there. I'll kill you."

Marshall watches the other man silently. Rick looks absolutely lethal at this moment, pressing close and imposing. He means what he says. "Relax. When I'm out there," Marshall points out past the fence with the lit end of his cigarette before taking a drag, "when it's about life and death, I can shut it down like that." He snaps his fingers together. "But in here, man… I just. You gotta understand. I've been alone for months. I used to climb onto whatever I had to crash on. A tree, a roof, it didn't matter. At least I was safe up there."

Rick backs up a bit, looking a mix of confused and curious, "We're safe here."

Marshall nods, "Maybe we are, yeah." He takes another drag and blow out the smoke slowly before continuing, "But I don't know that yet. Old habits die hard, I guess." He laughs harshly before glancing at the other man, "You don't have to worry about me." It's a half-truth. With enough time, he'll be all right.

Rick doesn't seem too convinced. He stares at him for a few seconds before nodding, "Okay."

"Okay?" Marshall repeats, peering at the other man warily.

"Yeah." Rick responds gruffly, "Just remember what I said and we're good. Let's get back inside."

He hears the creaking of the metal door sliding open behind him when he realizes it wasn't a suggestion. It's an order. Marshall takes one last drag and let the smoke billow out between his lips slowly before letting the cigarette drop and crushing it under the hell of his boot. He bites back a sigh as he feels a new pressure weighing him down: Rick's threat.

Maybe this is how it feels to have clipped wings.

.:|:.

The crying wakes him up. It's late morning, with beams of sunlight shining in through the barred windows, but he heard it. It's a faint sound, like an echo that's just barely reaching the quiet corners of his cell. It's a baby crying. Marshall shakes it off lightly, stirring in his bunk. It's probably just his mind playing tricks on him again. Only it doesn't stop, even as he tries to will it away.

His eyes slide open groggily as he turns to ease off his bunk and onto his feet. There's concern starting to seep into his tired features as he runs his hand through the oily locks of his hair before shuffling out onto the catwalk where he hears the faintest of voices chattering. A closer look around and his question is answered: Carol's cradling a fussing baby near the top of the stairs.

Marshall stands there dumbfounded. He would've noticed – no, he should've – if there was a baby involved, but he didn't. That only complicates things. Carl, he can understand. The boy's old enough to survive in this world, but… a baby? A baby can't do anything. It' just another mouth to feed and make noise. He grunts as he mentally smacks himself. Crawford really did a number on him.

Carol notices him then and gives him a wry smile, "Morning, sunshine."

"Morning," he drawls out as he steps closer to her and folds his arms across his chest, a frown tugging at his lips, "Didn't know there was a baby here."

"Yeah," Carol coos lightly as she tilts the bottle of formula up for the grabby baby to suckle on, "She's a quiet one when she isn't hungry. Why, did she wake you?"

Marshall hums in response, taking a closer look at the squirming bundle. She's a pale, little thing with light wisps of hair. He smiles sadly as he looked at her, silently wondering just how long she could last in this world.

"Well, good," Carol teases, "It's about time you got up." Marshall raises an eyebrow, "Beth was on her way to get you when Rick stopped her. Told her to let you get some rest." She shoots him a questioning look that he quickly dodges by looking anywhere but her direction. It's then that he notices the crate padded down like a crib with the words 'Li'l Asskicker' scrawled on the side and little flowers drawn around it in sharpie.

Marshall can't hold back a laugh, "That's her name? Li'l asskicker?"

Carol purses her lips, obviously not too happy about Marshall dodging the topic, "No. That's what Daryl calls her." She breaks into a smile, "Her real name's Judith."

Marshall shifts slightly, "Is she..." He clears his throat, "Is she yours?"

Carol stiffens for a second before her eyes got heavy with sadness, "No. She's Rick's."

Ah. The missing pieces on the puzzle suddenly clicked into place in his head, and Marshall finally understands. He'd seen it, the loss that just seemed to ooze from Rick when he was trying to protect his people. It was almost a craze - it scarred him, and it's still a fresh wound, barely scabbing over. He doesn't have to ask where his wife is. The answer haunts the air.

"Why don't you go get changed," Carol speaks up. He guesses she must've noticed he got lost in his thoughts judging off the sad smile she's giving him, "I'll make sure they're clean when you get back."

"Oh," The word slips out of his mouth as he glances down at his strewn, dirty button up. "I don't really –" He cuts himself short, choosing to give her a warm grin instead. Now he just has to remember to try and find some new clothes on the run, "Thanks."

"It's no trouble," Carol says, gently putting Judith back in her box. "Now go on, shoo. I'm sure Rick'll come looking for you soon. You missed breakfast." His stomach grumbles at the mention and he moves his hand to try and quiet it, but Carol heard and starts laughing at him. "I'll go pack something for you."

And with that, Carol's gone, leaving him to stand there alone in his socks. Judith's stirring a little, but the baby seems more than ready to get back to napping. _Fuck…_ If he hadn't wanted to stay before, now he does. As tough as Rick's group may be, they need more people. If they want Judith to live and grow up, they needed him now more than ever.

He hurries back to his cell, determination lining his steps. If they want to win against this Governor, they need those guns. Once he steps inside, he starts undoing his shirt and yanks it off before dropping it onto his bunk. He wanders over to his rucksack and crouches down before unlatching it. He shivers a little bit, slightly unused to the feeling of being shirtless. He spills all its contents into the dusty corner. before digging into the bottom of the pack. He's sure he has at least one other shirt tucked in here somewhere…

"Why are you still here?" A woman asks from the behind him.

Marshall glances over his shoulder at the stranger. It's Michonne. He's yet to actually talk to her. The most he'd caught was her name. She's just as much a stranger to Rick's group as he is. He lets his head drop for a second with a sigh. There it is. He grabs a tattered, rolled up olive green v-neck and slides it on before standing to face her, "What do you mean?"

Michonne lifts her chin, "They patched you up, fed you. You could've left, but you didn't. Why?"

He shrugs at her and tucks the hem of his shirt into his jeans, "I owe them." He says honestly.. They took a risk in taking him in. He can understand where her suspicion's1 coming from, but that does nothing to ease the irritation he feels starting to prickle.

Michonne blocks off the exit with her body and slouches against the metal frame, "Why?" She repeats.

Marshall groans and turned his back on her. He bends over and shoves everything back into his rucksack and tossing it onto his bed. He picks up his glove and slides it on, fastening it into place before grabbing his jacket. He runs his hand over it and does something he hasn't done in months: he puts it down. "You wanna know why?" he starts to say while grabbing his bow and quiver before turning to look her square in the eye, "I'm tired of being alone."

Michonne says nothing but her features seem to ease up a bit. He takes it as his cue to keep going.

"I could keep at it, yeah, but I don't want to. Not anymore." He breaks eye contact to wrap the strap of his quiver around his waist and buckle it with a faint click, "I have a chance here for something good." He smiles faintly, more to himself than anything, "You do too." He adds.

Michonne pushes herself away from the frame. She almost looks offended, "What?"

Marshall shrugs again but chooses not to push, "Did you come here just to ask me that or what?"

She gives him a side glance before turning to leave, "Rick sent for you."

"Let's go then."


	5. Recognition, pt I

**Chapter 5: Recognition****, pt. I**

* * *

Nostalgia's one hell of a thing, he realizes. It's quiet, innocent in its intent, but all it manages to do as it sinks into his bones is bring a sad smile to his lips while he gazes out the window and watches the trees blur into his peripheral.

It isn't something he can hold back, not really. It started back in the prison courtyards, while he leaned against the side of the minivan they planned on taking on their run. He'd just been waiting on Rick and Carl, watching them with squinted eyes while chewing on his lower lip. The other man was speaking to the few that were staying. It's routine, he figures, to try and keep things in order while he's away.

But then they started telling each other to stay safe, and suddenly Marshall felt like he shouldn't be watching. He looked away so fast, it must have seemed odd considering the look Michonne had been giving him. Talk about embarrassing. Maybe it's just his... inexperience. Shit, he can't really remember the last time someone actually worried about him coming back and it stung too much to think about. Not even Molly seemed to worry if he ever came back.

He sighs quietly as he presses his forehead against the warm glass, hoping that it could somehow quiet down the thoughts and memories that keep pestering him. He doesn't want to get caught up in memories from before everything when to shit, of when he roared with laughter with friends driving down an empty road a hell of a lot like the one they were on now. Thinking like that gets you killed. He's seen it happen.

He mumbles to himself as he glances down at the arrow he's fiddling with in his hands. It's the one Daryl gave him. He chews on hips lower lip as he rolls it along his fingers. Worst case scenario, he can _try _shooting it, but... it might hurt him more than whatever (or whoever) he's aiming at. He holds it out between his hands and traces his fingers along the nicks and grooves running along its length, wondering what kind of history the blood-stained would might have. The sound of someone clearing their throat from the front seats doesn't let him wonder.

"Marshall," Rick's voice cuts over the hum of the engine, "Something the matter?"

Marshall glances up to meet Rick's hard gaze in the rear view mirror, his threat from the night before still fresh on his mind. _'I__f you compromise the safety of this group, I won't just leave you out there. I'll kill you__.'_"I'm good."

The other man studies him, but he isn't lying. He's all right. There's just... a little bit of noise buzzing in his head. Rick doesn't say anything for a few seconds, and what was once comfortable silence started to smother a bit. "So, what's your story?"

Marshall actually manages to laugh. That was unexpected. The last thing he'd think to be asked right now was about his life before all this. It makes his skin itch. Marshall bites his cheek before relenting, "What do you want to know?"

Rick shrugs, "Your choice."

Choice. It's a funny word to use. It means he can choose to say nothing, to let his past sit in the dust and let time bury it deep, but Marshall sees it for what it was: an opportunity to air things out. "Well," He starts, shifting a bit in his seat, "I'm not from around here. Though I figure you already got that from my accent. Uh, the lack of one, I guess." He twirls the arrow in his hand before slipping it back into his quiver. "My family's from Pennsylvania. I came to Georgia to study. Was about to graduate when all this shit happened."

"Studying what?" Rick asks. It's small talk, he figures, but it feels a little more hollow than he's used to. The isn't much good the past can do now after all.

Marshall scoffs a little,, "Not that it'd do me much good now but… architecture."

"That ain't true." Rick turns to look at him suddenly. It catches him off guard, "There's things we need to fix and expand at the prison after we deal with Woodbury. Think you could help with that?"

Great. Now he feels like a deer caught in headlights. It makes him uneasy - it's not like he can say no. "I'm no engineer, but yeah, I don't see why not."

Rick nods curtly before slouching back into the passenger seat. Marshall takes it as his cue to keep going.

"I was in Savannah when shit hit the fan. I probably wouldn't have made it if it weren't for Crawford."

"Crawford?" It's Carl who asked. The boy's still coming off as a grouch, but at least he isn't glaring at him anymore.

"Yeah." Marshall runs a hand through his hair with a small huff, "It was a borough in the city. Even when the city fell, Crawford stood."

"How'd they manage?"

"Easy," he looks away, "Survival of the fittest. If you couldn't carry your weight, you couldn't get in. If you became a liability…" The wall of speared corpses comes to mind. "Well, let's just say they got creative with how they dealt with you."

"And you stayed there?"

"For a bit. I… I met Molly there. When she left, I left. We stuck together. She taught me how to survive. Can only do so much with a bow alone, you know?"

"Where is she?"

"Don't know." Marshall grimaces, hurt and angry all over again, "And don't care. She abandoned me."

They're quiet after that, something Marshall's silently grateful for. He can be honest about most things, but talking about Molly… It's a touchy subject; one that makes him want to snarl and snap a walker's neck. It's not the first time he's avoided talking about her. Hell, he doesn't even know what he'd do if he ever ran into her again. The world's smaller now after all. A lot smaller.

Small enough to make him wonder if there's even a point to keep going… asides from not dying. He's not so sure what it is that he wants, but dying isn't on his agenda and not knowing makes him feel like there's a hole in his chest. No. Fuck that, he figures. He's alive now and that's what matters. There isn't any room to worry about anything else, right?

That's what he thinks, but then next thing he knows, the SUV gets caught in some mud and Rick's asking him to keep an eye out for any walkers while they worked on getting the car loose. It's a simple task, yeah, but it's a bit hard to focus on anything with Rick and Carl talking about him and Michonne. Hell, the kid even goes on to blame _her_ for the SUV getting stuck. Like father, like son.

Maybe it's her fault a little bit, but… when he lets himself look over the wreckage blocking the road and the bodies pinned under them, he can get why she stopped. He frowns, suddenly, and before he knows it, he's leaning in through the driver window. Michonne's defensive – he can see it in the way she stiffens. He doesn't mean to startle her, hell he didn't even mean to try and seem threatening, so he does the one thing he knows how to do.

"Everything alright?" Marshall smiles softly, keeping his voice down.

Michonne glances at him, and Marshall gets the distinct vibe that she isn't used to people showing concern. She takes a deep breath and drums her fingers along the steering wheel, "Peachy."

Marshall smirks, but there really isn't any humor there, "Don't let the kid get you down. You're all right in my books."

Before he even gives her a chance to say anything, he's pulling away. He taps on the door twice before making his way back to the road and nocks an arrow just in case any walkers happen to come stumbling by. Even the slightest noise drew them – and cars, especially older cars, made a lot of noise. _Not as bad as a train._ He shivers at remembering the huge herd that made it to Savannah after following Lee and his damn train.

Movement down the road pulls him out of his thoughts and instinct takes over. He draws the string back and squints through the scope. One walker, about 150 yards away. Poor fucker must've recently turned given the amount of gear he's carrying… except, the more he watches, the more he realizes the walker isn't limping or wandering about. It's following the road. _Shit._

"Hey, Rick," He calls out without looking away, "We've got a breather."

He hears Rick coming up behind him and can't help but tense up. He hasn't really seen much of Rick yet… the only thing he has to judge the man off of are other people vouching for him and his own threats. If Rick asks him to shoot this guy… would he do it? There isn't really any time for him to mull it over.

"Hey!"

_Shit… _

Marshall squeezes his eyes tight, dreading what he's probably about to do. When he finally opens them, the man down the road is waving at them eagerly. Even from this far he can see that the man was all smiles and sunshine. He's probably been alone for a while, and anyone alive is probably a sight for sore eyes… especially if they aren't shooting at him. But for all his beaming, Marshall can only grimace.

Rick's face is hard, probably running through options in his head. Whatever he's thinking, he doesn't share it with him. It doesn't take him more than a few seconds to turn on his heel and head back to the SUV, "Let's get going."

He doesn't realize how relieved he is until he lets his bow go slack, but he has to ask, "What about him?" Marshall jabs his thumb at the man down the road.

Rick stops next to passenger door and turned a steely gaze at him, "Leave him."

Marshall blinks. His shoulders feel heavy. He'd been expecting to be told to shoot an arrow through the guy's head, but leaving him? It somehow feels worse. He can feel Rick watching him, waiting for him to follow suit. He takes a shuddery breath before nodding at Rick. Next thing he knows, he's squaring himself back into his seat, trying to ignore the man desperately shouting at them to wait for him.

For a second he wonders if maybe it would have been a mercy to just put an arrow through his head than ditch him like that.

.:|:.

It isn't long until they make it to the outskirts of King County. For once, Marshall just wants to focus on what they have to do. It's better than getting caught up wondering if the guy's still on their trail… if he's even still alive. _Fuck._ He shakes his head, wanting the thoughts gone. They all pile out of the car. Rick figured it would be better to continue on foot. Makes sense – easier to sneak in and not risk drawing any more walkers than necessary. It's a short walk to the sheriff's department.

Only… the sheriff's department armory is completely empty. Everything's been taken, and Rick looks none too pleased at that. Hell, the man went and kicked an empty gun rack out of frustration. Marshall can't say he'd envy the pain he's going to be feeling after that stunt, though he can't say that he was feeling much better himself. Guns aren't his specialty, but if the Governor's as bad as everyone's making him out to be, there's no way his bow's gonna be of much use. Now he's just hoping this trip wasn't a waste of gas.

Rick's holsters his gun with a loud click, "Damn it!" He's running his hands through his hair, looking like his fuse got even shorter. This is the Rick Marshall doesn't want to deal with. Hell, he doesn't even think it's possible to deal with him if he got like this.

Marshall wonders what Michonne's up to when he spots her crouching down to pick something up. In her hand, she twirls a lone bullet that looks like it'd fit a revolver. "You got any other police stations in town?" She asks without looking.

Rick's quick to answer, making Marshall want to shrink away, "I _was_ the police here. Me and a few others." He lets out a short breath, "Ain't a big town." And when he says that, something seems to click on his face, as though he's remembering details.

"There's other places to check," Rick starts, rubbing at his temple, "May not have as many guns as were in here, but –"

Michonne cuts him off, her back still turned to the rest of them. Marshal frowns slightly, starting to feel uneasy, "We need as many guns as were in here. Ammo, too."

"Yeah, we do." Michonne glances once behind before looking away again. "But right now, I only got a line on a couple. There's a few places on main street. Owners had a gun or two behind the counter that people didn't know about. I did. I signed the permits. They might"

That's when Marshall feels his hackles rising. Rick turns to look directly at Michonne's back, a questioning look on his face, and not of the good variety. "You got a problem with that approach?" His voice sounds venomous. Marshall remembers Carl's standing a bit a ways to his side. Was this the kind of shit he's had to watch his dad do?

What surprises him even more is when Michonne turned to face Rick. There's no hostility on her face, and when she speaks, it's the softest he's ever heard from her, "No, Rick. I don't have a problem." She walks up to him and offers the lone bullet she found. Rick takes it, although he seems… confused. His eyes trail after her as she walks past him and steps out, but Marshall keeps watching long enough to see Rick fiddle with the bullet before tucking it into his shirt pocket.

Marshall can't help but smirk, managing to successfully have both Rick and Carl give him a suspicious look. He raises his hands in mock defeat before turning tail and following behind Michonne. Once outside, they all followed behind Rick, but something rubs him the wrong way the closer they get to the center of the town.

For one, someone took the time to spray some arrows pointing toward what he figured was the main street of the town, but why? One quick glance at the others and he can tell Michonne's getting on edge too. One of the buildings has something scrawled on it... Marshall can't tell if it's blood or spray paint but the message was clear: "**AWAY WITH YOU**".

Marshall chances a glance at Rick, "I'm gonna take a guess and say this wasn't here before."

"No." Rick replies, looking around seeming more lost than back at home. "It wasn't."

Then they all see it: a heap of charred bodies all stacked on top of each other. There's a canister of fuel not far from it. This is fresh. The thing that bugs at him is that he has no way of knowing if all those bodies had been walkers or not.

"What does that mean?" Carl's the one to ask.

"It means…" Rick's dragging his palm across his cheek in frustration.

"Looters don't burn bodies unless they plan on staying." Marshall chimes in.

Rick nods, "Yeah. Someone's around and we don't know how many." He glances over his shoulder at the three of them before nodding again. "Marshall, take point with me. Michonne, keep an eye on our six. Carl, you do what she says."

The kid looks ready to start a fight, "What? But we –"

Rick cuts him off, "Not now, Carl. Trust me on this." And Marshall could swear he sees a pleading look in there somehow.

Carl huffs a little but relents, "Alright, dad."

Marshall shifts uncomfortably until Rick calls him over, gesturing him over to his right. For the most part, they march in silence, but he can feel the glances Rick is giving him. More importantly, the way he keeps watching his hands. If that the case, he figure he'd keep his hands busy and draws his bow. He has a feeling he'll need it soon enough anyways.

Eventually, Rick leads them all around a corner and… well.

"What… is it?" Michonne whispers.

"I don't know." Is Rick's response, but for Marshall, it's pretty obvious.

"It's a trap. A lot of them." The entire street's covered in handmade 'columns' and barricades covered with sticks that had knives attached to the end. "Though I don't think they're meant for us." He whispers as he nocks an arrow.

No one says anything as they close in on the street, but they all stop in front of something spray painted onto the gravel: "**TURN AROUND AND LIVE**". The message doesn't seem to unnerve Rick, but it's enough to keep Marshall from moving ahead.

"Rick," He calls out quietly, "You sure about this? I didn't survive as long as I did ignoring shit like this."

Rick barely spares him a glance, "We're going."

"Fuck…" Marshall mutters under his breath. Rick's gonna be his undoing at this rate. He takes a deep breath as he steps over the warning and gets back to his spot. It's all wrong. There's writing on everything, all of them warning people to stay back. There are pigeons and rats in cages – lures, he figures. This is stupid, absolutely fucking stupid.

Michonne's the one to break the silence, "Looks like someone's already made this theirs."

Rick, of course, keeps going, "Doesn't mean they found what we're looking for. Couple of the places are just up ahead. Let's get in and get the hell out of here." As if it's that simple. Something's bound to happen; his gut won't shut up about it.

They all crouch down under a rope with sharp barbs along it, getting in closer while Rick goes on about what places had what kind of guns. Carl 's the one to notice a walker trailing behind them. Instinct has him aiming for a shot at the same Michonne's drawing her blade, but Rick tells them both to stop. He figures this would be a good time to see how good the traps were. The walker gets snagged, but none of them are expecting its head to burst in a gory mess.

"Hands!" A masked man shouts from the rooftop, aiming his rifle at them.

Marshall groans loudly as he holds his hands out, "I fucking told you."

* * *

_Note:_ Just as an FYI, I am tying in Tell Tale's TWD a bit into this fic… if it wasn't obvious yet, aha.


	6. Recognition, pt II

**Chapter 6: Recognition, pt. II**

* * *

"Hands!"

All it takes is one word to put him on the defensive. Marshall grinds his teeth roughly as he glances up at the masked figure on the rooftop. Instinct takes over and he finds himself thinking of ways to get out of this alive. With that vantage point, there was no way he'd manage to land an arrow without getting his brains blown out. He grunts at the thought. He's good, but he isn't _that_ good.

As much as he hates it, he has to rely on Rick now. "I fucking told you." He curses, feeling his muscles tense as he chances a glance at the ex-sheriff.

The man on the roof is cycling through each of them in his sights. "Now you drop what you got, and you go! Your guns, your shoes, that sword, and that bow."

Marshall tightens his grip on his bow at its mention. The only way he'd ever give it up would be if he was dead, and he has no plans on dying just yet. "What's the plan, Rick?"

"Easy," Rick hasn't taken his eyes off the gunman. Marshall can't tell what's running through his head. Hell, he can't even tell who he's talking to.

"All of it." The man calls out again, this time sounding like he's getting ready to shoot. "Ten seconds!"

"Carl," Rick starts - "Ten!" - "Run for the car now."

"Dad." Carl sounds ready to protest. For the love of God, Marshall hopes he won't.

"We need that rifle." Michonne chimes in. She's right. The whole point of this run was to find guns, and the man up top aiming down at them? Well… with the get up he had, and the number of traps, it only made sense that he has a stockpile somewhere. A big one. They just have to get rid of him and find it. If only it would be as easy as it sounds.

"It's only him." Marshall mutters, scoping out the other rooftops, "If we can flank him…"

The man may have had the advantage of height, but they had numbers. If they could keep him busy long enough for one of them to get drop on him, they'd have their guns, Rick would be happy (he needed Rick happy), and they'd all get back home in one piece. Marshall blinks, losing himself for a moment. _Home…_ He did it again. Shit.

"Nine!"

Marshall stands there, waiting on Rick to signal them into action.

"Eight!"

Nothing. Marshall takes a glance at Rick, hoping to find some kind of unspoken cue, but there's nothing. He furrows his brows, "Rick..?"

Michonne's the one to speak up, "I think I can get up there."

Eliminate the target while it's distracted… It's smart thinking, if they can manage it. He's yet to see Michonne fight – he doesn't know anything about her, really. The only thing he has to judge her off of is his gut, and right now it's in knots. Marshall shakes his head in disbelief. How'd he manage to get himself here?

"Seven!"

Still nothing from Rick. Fuck it. He can't just stand here doing nothing. "I'll follow you."

"Six!"

Rick finally seems to snap into action. "Carl, go!" In one swift motion, he pushes Carl behind him and starts unloading shots at the gunman.

"Fuck!" Marshall makes a dash for it the second bullets start flying. He ducks low, trying to find some semblance of cover as he trails behind Michonne's fleeting figure. He has to hand it to her, she's quicker than she looked. He bites back more curses as shots dig into the ground by his feet.

He makes a run for the alley once the shots break away from him. Marshall grunts when he doesn't see Michonne there. He can't wait around for her – he to keep going. He slings his bow over his shoulder before unhooking his pick from his belt. "Just like Savannah." He takes a deep breath before scaling the wall and hoisting himself over.

Typically, he'd be relieved at getting this far, but the bullets stop ringing. He crouches low, flourishing his pick in his hand, ready to strike as he makes his way towards the center of the roof. He turns on his heel at a noise to his right, just about ready to swing. It's Michonne. He eases up, exchanging glances with her before pressing on, but there's no one to be found. The two of them creep to the edge, signaling Rick. At least he's still alive, but they still have a missing gunner.

Michonne saves him the effort of having to say anything, turning around and doubling back from where she had come up, looking about as frustrated as he felt. He groans. This isn't over yet. There's a chance the man decided to pull back. That means he could have a chance to grab bigger guns, if he had them. He runs a hand over his brow, wiping away the sweat he feels building up.

He doesn't even get five seconds to collect himself before shots started ringing again from below him. Shit. Rick's pinned down with no one to cover him. There isn't any time for him to line up a shot with his bow. He doesn't really have much leeway to choose from – he has to be reckless. Maybe he shouldn't have. He vaults over the edge of rooftop, latching onto it just long enough to soften his fall. It doesn't help much.

He hisses loudly as his ankle seared in pain from his landing, but he chokes the pain down as he sprints toward the gunman and pulls him into a chokehold. All he needs is a few seconds and – Marshall reels back the second he hears the gunshot, and the gunman falls backwards, smacking his head against the concrete. Carl has his gun drawn. Carl took a shot.

Marshall's breath catches in his throat. A shot that close would've gone through. He pats himself down hurriedly, trying to find where he took the bullet. There isn't an 'if' for him – it had to have hit him, but his hands come back clean. He lets out a shaky breath. It doesn't make sense. Soon enough, the others are huddling around.

"You okay?" He hears Rick ask.

"I think so." Marshall starts, but when he glances up, he realizes Rick's asking Carl, and that makes his blood turn to ice.

"Yeah" is all the kid says. He isn't even looking at him. No, his eyes are set on the man lying on the ground.

"I told you to run for the car." Rick sounds like he's about to lecture his son, "I didn't want you to have to do that."

"I had to." Carl seems so sure of himself, so right in his decision that Marshall wants to take the oversized hat off his head and throw it aside.

He can barely keep himself in check. He's just about ready call out the little shit when a firm hand clasps onto his shoulder. He turns an icy glare at it, only to find Michonne giving him a weary look. She doesn't have to say anything. She doesn't say anything. All she does is shake her head lightly and his anger simmers down to annoyance.

Marshall lets out a long sigh before crouching down and grabbing up his pick from the ground. Marshall huffs quietly, but he's curious. He circles around the unconscious man before flipping his pick over and prodding at his chest with the hilt. It clunks against something. He can't bite back the harsh laugh that leaves his lips, "Bulletproof." Marshall tears the flannel shirt open, revealing the body armor underneath, "Lucky me."

Rick's crouches down and undoes the Velcro fastenings, inspecting the wound for whatever reason. "He's alive."

Michonne manages to speak up before Marshall got the chance to, "Do we care?"

Marshall pushes himself back up onto his feet, only to yelp in pain. He'd forgotten about his ankle after that scare. "Fuck," he mutters under his breath. Two days with these people and already he had stitches and a sprained ankle. He leans onto his good foot, trying to keep pressure off of it while Rick did… whatever it is that he's doing.

Rick's tugging at the man's goggles, trying to get them loose. Marshall doesn't really see the point of it, but when he sees the look of horrified recognition on Rick's face, he figures things just got a bit more complicated. "Yeah… Yeah, we do."

Rick's on his feet then, grabbing a stretcher that was nearby and hoisting the man onto it. "Carl, stay here. Keep an eye on him." He drags his attention to Michonne and him then, "C'mon, let's go."

There isn't a point to asking what this was about. Rick's determined, for whatever reason, to help this man. Whoever the man is, Rick recognized him, but… Marshall can't understand why he cares. The man was shooting at them – shooting at Rick. He didn't remember him. Hell, if the look of the town said anything, the man's probably as far-gone as they can get.

They make their way past more traps before reaching what looked like the spot he'd come out from. The extra number of traps vouches for that. "Keep an eye out for traps," Rick says, as though it wasn't obvious. "Looks like he's gotten pretty creative so far."

"Being alone tends to have that effect." Marshall mumbles, glancing behind them just to make sure there weren't any walkers closing in on all the noise they made.

Michonne's sheathing her sword then, "I thought we were just gonna get in and get the hell out of here." She seems just as confused as he is.

"I'm not leaving him on the street." Rick sounds like he doesn't want to explain himself.

"Look," Michonne frowns, "I know you said he helped you – "

"He saved my life. He wasn't like this before."

"Okay," Marshall decides, choosing not to argue against Rick, "I can ignore the fact he tried to kill us, but this?" He gestures at all the traps and writings scrawled on walls, "This doesn't say much about where his head's at."

"All the more reason to help him," Rick replies, and it's almost funny, the lengths he'd take to help a man who tried to kill them.

Marshall sighs, bracing himself. "Rick…"

"Enough." Rick cuts him off, like he guessed he would, but his gaze lingers elsewhere. On the other side, Carl's standing firmly in front of Rick's pal, aiming his gun straight at his head. That doesn't seem to be what phases Rick, though. "Jesus, he has a son." And suddenly Rick doesn't look so sure of himself.

"You think he's in there?" Michonne asks after a few seconds.

Rick doesn't say anything, but his silence answered enough as he ducks under some of the blades sticking out. The world may have gone to shit, but he doubts that would be enough to have someone willingly risk the safety of their child for a holdup. As much as he hates to admit it, the man's son probably died long ago. This isn't the kind of setup a man with something to live for would have, but Marshall bites his tongue and keeps quiet.

"Don't." Michonne whispers harshly as Rick almost steps onto the welcome mat – he freezes where he stands and shoot her a confused look. "You said booby traps." She points at the mat with her chin.

Rick grabs one of the corners and peels it back enough for them to see the number of knives and blades hidden underneath. Marshall blinks and sidles up to Michonne. These aren't traps for walkers. They're traps for people. He scratches at the back of his head, whistling quietly in admiration. This one's probably just a deterrent.

"Thank you," Rick murmurs, and he almost sounds sincere. Maybe he is.

"Let's just get him inside and go,"

Rick nods a few times before turning back and following Michonne back to where they'd left the man, and suddenly Marshall's alone. He folds his arms across his chest, turning to take a look at what was left of the town. This was Rick's home, he figures. A lot of the buildings are coated in soot and ash – they'd been burned, probably on purpose. He frowns, trying to imagine what it would've been like to walk these streets before the dead started to walk. It was probably a nice enough place to settle down.

Marshall sighs quietly and lets his arms drop before pulling loose the one stake blocking the entrance and tossing it aside. The others are fine for now, and they'd be lugging around dead weight, so he takes the initiative to check ahead. He treads carefully, making sure to avoid even touching the welcome mat as he steps through the open doorway. He grimaces at what he sees at the top of the stairs: '**NOT SHITTING YOU'**. It screams trap.

He slowly makes his way up the stairs, trying to keep the amount of noise he makes to a bare minimum. He doubts there's anyone else up here, but he can never be too careful. He's nearing the top when he hears someone calling after him outside. He chances a glance down to see Rick and Michonne heaving the man along. Marshall holds up a finger to his lips stop them from saying anything. Their footsteps clamber up behind him as he nears the final step.

A faint shimmer catches his eye and he gestures for the others to stop. "Hold up." He whispers, crouching down to see if he could find what it was connected to. Whatever it is, it's on the other side of the tarp. "Tripwire." He stands back up and pulls the tarp aside slowly. He startles when he saw the axe aimed right at his head, coated in dried up blood.

Rick calls up to him, "You all right?"

Marshall squints at the weapon. This friend of Rick's has killed. He isn't just a thief. "Yeah," he stutters out. "Just watch your step."

Marshall steps around the wire and makes his way into the house – well, what's left of it. Two seconds in and everything feels wrong, just like the town. The walls are scrawled in writing left and right. There isn't a single spot left unwritten, and none of it makes any sense. One word keeps showing up though… Clear. He doesn't even notice the others walking past him and further inside. Rick's voice drags him away.

"I showed him that weapons locket last year."

Marshall walks up behind them. He doesn't even get to see all of the room, but already there are guns upon guns layering the room. "Holy shit," is all he manages to say. Holy shit indeed.

Michonne sounds just as surprised, "And it had all of this in it?"

Rick scoffs, eyes wandering over the guns, "No, not even half. He's been busy. There," He points at the makeshift bed in the corner, "the cot." Michonne helps Rick heave him along, leaving Marshall to scour the stockpile.

Honestly, with this much gear… The number of people this man had to have killed was probably in the double digits. Maybe some people chose to drop their gear and go, but he can't really believe anyone would leave weapons like these. There are rifles, pistols, SMGs, even fucking grenades (how does someone find a crate full of grenades?), but one weapon in particular draws his eye. There was a lone crossbow leaning against the wall – and it had a fully stocked quiver. Not too far to the side, he spots a separate quiver, only this one's full of arrows and not bolts. The man probably figured they were interchangeable.

"Jackpot." Marshall's beaming like a kid in a toy store, picking up the quiver and pulling out all the arrows he can move to his own quiver. The blue fletchings stand out against the three orange one's he's got left. Damn, it feels good to have arrows again. He stops when he notices the plain wooden bolt Daryl gave him sitting near the front of his quiver. If he tries shooting that, it'll probably split in half, but… it was a gift, so he swaps it out with an arrow and secures it in the back of his quiver.

Carl's staring at him when he decides to pick up the crossbow and look it over, "I thought you used bows?"

Marshall looks over at him, confused, "What?" He realizes Carl's got his eyes on the crossbow and lets out a little huff, "Oh. Yeah, but most compound bows and crossbows work in a similar way. You learn to use one, and you kinda know how to use the other… with practice, of course."

"Oh," Carl seems genuinely curious, and it's almost enough for him to forget the stunt he pulled earlier, "Which one's better then?"

Marshall laughs, and it's genuine, something he hasn't done in a long time. "Depends on who you ask. I had a friend I'd met on a range a few years back. He was a crossbow kinda guy. We'd always end up arguing for hours about which one was better, but honestly, it's all about preference." He draws the crossbow up and looks down the sights, "Not my style."

Michonne gives him a look as she strides over to them. She doesn't say anything, but grabs a nearby duffel bag and started loading up guns. Carl follows suit and starts packing ammo into a separate bag. Marshall stares at the crossbow in his hands though. He can't let it go to waste. He doesn't use them, but Daryl does. With his mind made up, he slings its strap over his shoulder and the crossbow clanks against his bow.

He pulls open some drawers, hoping to find anything else of use. Inside, there's mostly junk, but one thing stands out to him. It's an unopened box of rechargeable batteries. They probably ran out juice a year ago, but if he can find a way to charge them… Well, maybe the end of the world could be a little easier. He pockets the box before turning around, ready to look elsewhere.

"No." Rick announces abruptly. All three of them turn to look at him. He's clutching a beat-up walkie-talkie and staring at one space on the wall in particular. '**DUANE TURNED**'. Rick turns to address them, "We're gonna wait for him to wake up. Make sure he's okay."

Marshall raises a brow, "He tried to kill us, Rick."

"He told us to go." Marshall barely fought back the urge to roll his eyes, "He didn't know who we were."

"He tried to kill us," Michonne straightens, "and we didn't leave him for the walkers. He's had a good day. He doesn't need half of these guns – We do."

Rick only has to look at the unconscious man once before speaking again, "We're waiting for him to wake up." He looks between Marshall and Michonne, "That's it."

She and Marshall share a glance. He speaks up, "Rick, look around you. The axe, the traps, these walls – "

"You think he's crazy?" Rick's asking him threateningly. Marshall pulls a face and rubs at his temples.

"No," Michonne starts, "I think he's dangerous."

Rick looks them both straight in the eyes, "I know him."

"He wasn't like this then."

"We're going to wait for him to wake up," Rick repeats himself, and that was that.

Marshall bites back a sigh. Sometimes, trying to talk sense into Rick feels like talking to a wall and it's frustrating. Maybe it's just something ingrained into cops. He drags a hand across his cheek before limping over to another crate and sifting through it. Rick can do what he wants for all he cares. The ex-officer had left to follow his son into the other room, but a crinkling noise makes Marshall glance over his shoulder.

"Shit," Marshall beams as he straddled over to Michonne, "Is that a granola bar? Pass me one."

Michonne pulls out the second bar from the wrapper and hands it to him. He nods his thanks before following her lead and taking a bite out of it. The crunch's a refreshing change from mushy mysterious canned food, and he's grinning from ear to ear. The noise seems to have drawn Rick's attention and he's shooting them both an incredulous look.

"We're eating his food now?" Rick seems just about done with them.

Marshall can't think of a response. Luckily, Michonne has him covered. "The mat said "Welcome."".

He's not really sure what happens after that. Rick's son is talking about going on a run for a crib on his own, but Michonne looked unconvinced and starts poking holes in his plan. She said something about going along with him, and Rick agreed. So long as Marshall got to enjoy his granola bar, he doesn't mind being left alone with Rick. He steps aside to let the two of them pass, and then it was just him and Rick.

Marshall tilts his head slightly, watching Rick pace around the unconscious man. The two had history, that much is obvious, but what could this one man have done to make Rick believe he's still… reachable. "Who is he?" He asks.

Rick spares him a glance before settling down on a crate near the cot, "His name's Morgan."

Marshall hums lightly, "And… when was the last time you saw him?"

Rick stomps his foot on the ground, "What's your point, Marshall?"

Marshall sighs and takes a few steps closer, "If he's been alone as long as I'm guessing…"

Rick shakes his head, "He had his son."

Marshall nods, "You're right. He had his son. Where is he now?"

Rick doesn't answer.

"Look, the only reason I'm still… me is because I didn't have anyone to lose. You're telling me he lost the one thing that kept him going? If you don't catch yourself after that, you lose track of who you are" He rubs at his neck, "Being alone changes you, Rick, especially if you lost someone. I'm just saying… you might not be able to help him."

There's a tense silence between them before Rick looks him straight in the eye, "You were alone out there. Did it change you?"

Marshall shifts uncomfortably, eyes cast down, "Yeah." He peers up at Rick, "Yeah, it did. I'm afraid a lot of the time. Terrified." He draws in a shaky breath, "Sometimes… I see things. Nothing major. I don't get why, but it's always the same thing. This one fucking butterfly." He laughs bitterly, "I found the prison following it. Would you believe that?"

Rick doesn't say anything, but he's not judging him by the way he looks at him. If anything, Marshall feels like he understands what he's saying, and it makes him feel just a little more uncomfortable. He kicks at the floorboards while waiting for Rick to say something, anything, but he never does. Marshall sighs before turning on his heel, "I'll leave you alone with him. I'll keep watch outside. Call me if you need me."

He waits until Rick nods before making his way out of the two story building, careful to avoid any of the traps they'd spotted beforehand. Once he makes it outside, he reaches for his back pockets out of instinct to pull out a smoke only to groan at the realization that he'd left them in his pack back at the prison. Marshall mumbles grumpily as he leans against a van by the entrance. There are two walkers caught in traps, but otherwise, the area's clear.

It's not even five minutes before there's noise coming from where Rick's at. If he has to guess, Morgan woke up, and he isn't too happy to find someone in his home. Marshall tenses slightly, wondering if he should go back in, but Rick hasn't called for him, so… he chooses to wait. Eventually, the noise calms down, only after hearing Rick shout out in pain. It's down to quiet murmurs from where he keeps watch. Marshall rubs at his scar absentmindedly. Maybe Rick would be lucky and manage to save his friend.

He doesn't notice he's dozed off until he starts at the sound of footsteps closing in. He blinks the drowsiness away only to find himself watching Morgan stepping out of the building. The two of them share a glance, but Morgan keeps on walking and went to deal with the pinned walkers. What had he missed? Luckily, Rick's not too far behind, carrying two bags full of guns and sporting a bloody spot on his shirt. Marshall frowns as he pushes himself away from the van and approaches him.

"The hell happened? You could've called for me."

Rick's nodding, "It's nothing."

Marshall makes a sound before snatching away one of the bags Rick was lugging. "Sure."

"Thank you." Rick says curtly.

Almost as if on cue, Michonne and Carl come up to them with a crib in tow. Marshall raises a brow, wondering how on earth it took them so long to grab a crib. He doesn't ask, though, choosing instead to nod at them both in greeting. Rick seems eager to get going though, and he's leading them back from where they'd come from.

Michonne casts a glance at Morgan, who doesn't even seem to acknowledge them as he hoists the corpses onto the stretcher, "He's okay?"

Rick sounds tired when he speaks up, "No, he's not."

"Wait." Carl stops them to look at Morgan. "Hey. Morgan."

Rick tries to stop him, "Carl – "

Morgan's looking straight at Carl then. "I had to shoot you. You know I had to, right? I'm sorry."

Marshall rolls his eyes while the attention was off of him. He'd argue against that, but he doesn't get the chance to mull it over before he spots Morgan closing in on Carl. He's not sure whether to draw his bow or not.

Morgan looks shaken as he looks down at Carl, "Hey, son. Don't ever be sorry."

Then he turns tail and went back to tending to the walkers as though they weren't there anymore. He's like a machine on auto-pilot. Marshall's looking at a broken man, far beyond repair. Marshall sighs before trailing behind the others as he tries to avoid straining his ankle. It's a short walk before they make it back to where they'd left the car. Rick pops open the trunk and Marshall hefts the duffel bag inside before getting inside the car. He groans in relief at finally getting off of his foot.

_Talk about a day._

It isn't long before the rest of them pile into the car and they're on their way back to the prison. They all deserve a rest after that, Rick most of all, but… things feel good. They feel a lot better. It's a quiet trip back. Everyone seems caught up in their own thoughts, but there isn't anything tense between them this time around. It's a relief. Marshall grunts when the car came to a stop in the middle of the road. Confused, he looks out the window only to spot the mangled corpse of the running man from before.

He sobs suddenly and claps a hand on his mouth before he makes another noise. He can't focus his eyes – he can't – he just – there was – why didn't he - His thoughts still for a moment. That could've been him.

_That could've been him._

"That could've been me."


	7. Drawback

**Chapter 7: Drawback**

* * *

"Marshall!"

Everything's all wrong. It feels like he's stuck in a dream and it's trying to smother him. All he can see is blood caked on dark asphalt and mangled limbs under the tatters of clothes – right there, right in front of him. It was his fault. The man had called to him for help, but he didn't do anything. He left him alone. He was no threat to them, he could've been useful, but he did absolutely nothing for him. And now he's torn to bits. His knuckles go white as he digs his fingers into his cheeks.

It's too much – he clenches his eyes shut. It could've been him. He could've been the one left alone on the side of a road to rot, even after calling for help… even after begging. It could've been him. He feels the tears welling in his eyes but he feels frozen in place, fear churning in his stomach. Part of surviving is choosing when not to help someone, yeah, but he'd never stuck around to see the results. The one time he does, and he has to see with his own eyes what happened to the people he refused to help.

"Marshall!"

Someone's calling out to him. The voice sounds like a whisper barely reaching his ears. There's something prodding at him – something real and he jerks roughly but the feeling won't go away. He wants to push away, but he's too tired to try. His bones feel like they're made of steel. Someone's shaking him then, and he finally manages to pry open his eyes. He doesn't want to look, doesn't want to acknowledge what he did, but the pressure on his shoulder wasn't easing up.

"Marshall! Hey," Fingers snap in front of him. He blinks, whining through his hand when a few tears roll down his cheeks, "Snap out of it."

Marshall's stares blankly at the figure in front of him. He can't make out who it is, but then something wells up in his chest and his breath hitches in his throat. It's Rick. Marshall's eyes widen in recognition. Oh God. Rick's halfway out of his seat and in his face. Marshall lets out a shaky breath as his hand goes slack and falls down to his lap.

"What the hell just happened?" Rick's hand is gripping him tight on his shoulder. Even if Marshall tried to wriggle away, he won't manage it. Rick's got a look on his face that's hard to read, but he swears he seems a little bit of worry in there. If he could manage it, he'd probably crack a grin.

Marshall let his head roll back against the headrest before rubbing his forearm roughly over his eyes. "That… that could've been me." His voice comes out hoarse like it's on the verge of cracking, "That could've been me months ago on my own. Or that could've been me yesterday outside the prison if you hadn't let me in." He laughs bitterly while trying to avoid Rick's eyes, "I'm alright. Sorry for the scare."

It's nearly silent in the car and Marshall feels his bravado cracking the longer he waits for Rick to just let it go. He can hear himself every time he takes shaky breaths. Thankfully, Rick doesn't press him and just… nods. No yelling or anything. He just nods. "Okay." Marshall hears the other man ease back into his seat, and he couldn't have been more grateful. He needed time to process… this. "Let's go."

Marshall huddles in on himself as the car finally sets back into motion. Rick's got his hand over his mouth like he's thinking about something and Marshall can just catch glimpses of Michonne glancing back at him through the rearview mirror. The world outside seems so calm if you ignored the rotting pieces of flesh walking around with a never-ending hunger. Mother Nature had one hell of a way of making him feel even worse about himself. The world's gone to shit and nature just moves on but Marshall? Sometimes he just gets stuck. He sighs softly as he rubs at the scar on his forearm out of instinct. He should've brought his jacket.

. : | * | : .

The sun's starting to hang a little low by the time they reach the prison. There's maybe another two hours or three left of daylight. The one thing that gives him a little bit of comfort is knowing that at least at the prison, nothing would be getting inside. Nothing could claw at him. He'd probably been a little bit too quiet considering halfway through the trip back Rick had kept sneaking in some looks. Probably wanted to make sure he wasn't acting up again. Truth be told, he's not so sure if that worries him or makes him feel a bit more at ease. He bites at his lower lip, trying to ignore the nagging thought reminding him of Rick's threat.

Marshall spots Carol running toward the inner gate to open it up for them. Managing to actually take a good look at the courtyard, he realizes what a damn shame it was that the Governor went and fucked it up by stirring up shit. It would've been nice to be able to lie down on some grass without worrying about any biters sneaking up on him. Carol gives him a small smile when the car pulls in and he steps out. He tries to return it, but it doesn't come out half as genuine as he'd hoped. The last thing he wants right now is someone hovering over him.

Carol purses her lips but doesn't say anything. Instead, she approaches Rick as he rounds the car to open the trunk, "How'd it go?"

Rick's got a grin on his face that Marshall never thought he'd see on the man. "Look for yourself." With a click, the trunk pops open and Carol catches a glance of all the bags overflowing with guns and ammo. The look on her face would've been priceless if Marshall wasn't fighting the urge to just run.

"You found all this in the armory?"

Rick's hoisting a bag, still grinning slightly, "Armory was bone dry. There was a... friend of mine still in town. This isn't even half of what he had."

Carol's checking to see if there's anyone still in the car, "You didn't ask him to join us?"

"He's not coming."

Marshall doesn't want to listen anymore, not after seeing the way the smile leaves Rick's face. He doesn't want the attention to switch to him. He doesn't want to be reminded of Rick's threats. With a grunt, he shoulders his bow and grabs the crossbow from the backseat of the SUV before turning to go inside the prison. At least there he can be alone and try and sort out how he feels, because, truth be told, he's not really sure himself.

The heavy metal door creak open as he slides through and he whines quietly when he put a bit too much weight on his ankle. He almost forgot about that. Someone tries calling him over, and the most he manages to do is nod at them before climbing up the catwalks. He can't help but sigh when he makes it to the entrance of his cell. The irony of finding it to feel almost like a home's a bit too strong not to, especially when it used to be a cage for a prison. It's unlocked, but still.

Marshall limps over to the lower bunk before dropping the crossbow onto it and easing his bow off. He sets it to rest against the wall before he notices the folded clothing on the foot of his bed. He blinks for a second before remembering what Carol had told him in the morning. She'd actually gone ahead and washed his clothes for him. It's such a small act of selflessness. He's the new guy, she doesn't owe him anything. If anything, he owes all of them his life, but she'd gone ahead and done that. It only makes him feel worse.

He grimaces as he feels his hands starting to shake. He doesn't need this. He snatches his jacket from the dusty corner of the cell before putting it on. It's like putting on a second skin, a safety net, and he feels a little better just from having it on. He grunts before plopping down on the stiff mattress roughly, prompting it to whine loudly. He takes a few seconds to just breathe and his hands still mostly. He can hear the faint sound of chatter in the lower cellblock, but it's otherwise quiet. Quiet enough to finally allow him a moment to just collect himself. Pressing his face into his hands, he just sits there.

He doesn't realize just how long he'd stayed like that until he feels someone standing in the entryway. "Knock, knock."

Marshall groans before pulling away from his hands. The sudden change in light makes him squint at the small figure. It was Beth, beaming just like he'd almost come to expect from her. He sits up and tries to give her a smile. "Beth. What's up?"

She' trying to be all smiles, but Marshall can tell what she's up to before she even asks. "Are you okay?" The look on his face must've been pretty lethal because she's quick to apologize. "Sorry. I heard what Rick said."

He sighs before rubbing his temple. "So Rick sent you?"

"No." is all Beth says, and after looking at her, he believed it. "Can I come in?"

Marshall waves a hand, "Yeah, sure."

Beth walks in with her hands wrung behind her back before settling down beside him. This is a conversation he's dreading to have, but… maybe this is something he needs. He honestly can't remember when was the last time he sat down with someone to talk about what was going through his head. He figures Beth probably got that much already. "So," she claps her hands on her thighs before turning to look at him, "What happened?"

Marshall watches her, trying to find something to give him a reason to leave, but the only thing found was concern and it made him feel weak. His stomach's doing flips all over again. "I – " The words don't want to come out. He shifts uncomfortably for a few seconds before trying again. "I panicked."

"Why?"

His eyes wander over the cell door. Impulse tells him to make a run for it, but he can't do that to Beth. "There was a man on the road. He called to us for help, and we just left him there to die. Found his body later, all torn and mangled up. We didn't help him, but we took his stuff. I froze up." He clenches his hands into fists before glancing at her, feeling utterly _wrong_. "That could've been me."

Beth doesn't say anything right away and it makes his nerves go on edge. She gives him a sad smile before tucking some loose strands of hair behind her ear, "Daddy said something once. He said that if you don't have hope, what's the point of living." Marshall's about to groan but Beth holds a hand up, "I know what it's like to get stuck. A few months ago, I tried to kill myself. I didn't know what I had to live for, and I was starting to get afraid that it's easier just to be afraid. But that's the thing," Beth's beaming then and takes one of his hands into hers. The gesture startles him but she keeps going, "You have to find the reason for yourself. For me, it's here. We can live here. We can live here for the rest of our lives."

The way she spoke… Marshall actually believes her. Something's welling up in his chest with the way Beth's smiling at him. Shit, he's so screwed. He'd already felt it trickling into him slowly. He wasn't sure before, but Beth just answered his question. It's hope. Two years of little to no hope, and now it felt so foreign to him that it had made him want to run away, but maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing.

"Huh," he mumbles, cocking his head slightly, "Yeah… Maybe you're right." He gives her a lopsided grin, "We just have to get rid of this Governor, but uh… Yeah. This place can be a home. Just needs a little paint."

Beth giggles a bit before hopping up onto her feet. She's giving him a cheeky smile as she heads toward the catwalk with a bounce in her step, "Yeah. I'm glad you're feeling better." She gives him a little nod before rounding the corner and stepping out of his sights. He could hear her going down the steps and joining the others.

"Huh."

Marshall blinks and glances down at his hands… they weren't shaking anymore. He actually feels good and the feeling's so strange he can't help but wiggle his fingers. He's gotten so used to dealing with everything alone that to suddenly have someone share their hope with him… As cheesy as it sounds, it felt contagious. He pulled one hand into a fist. They weren't safe yet, though. They had to deal with the Governor, and then this place could be a home… Home. He huffs a little laugh as the word crossed his mind before combing over his cell. It was only a cage if he treated it like that. Nah… this was his room. His.

He scratches at the back of his neck, not really sure what to do with himself now. It's true, he feels better. A lot better actually, but his body's still as strung up as his bow. He squints at the barred windows in the main block. From what little he manages to see of the sky (he doesn't envy whatever inmates lived here before), there's maybe an hour left of daylight if he got lucky. Now would be as good a time as any to go out for a smoke break. Maybe then he'd actually manage to get a good night's rest.

Marshall eases up onto his feet before bending over to pick up his rucksack. He sifts through it quickly to pull out the beat up carton and lighter and pocketing them into his pockets. He tosses the sack onto his bed before making his way out onto the catwalks. He leans against the railing and glances down. Beth and Maggie were huddled around Hershel. The two girls were smiling from ear to ear, talking about something he couldn't quite hear. The others weren't below, but the heard a lot noise coming from outside the cell block.

He tries making as little noise as he can, but any kind of noise was going to draw attention. His steps ring as he makes his way down the stairs. The Greene's are all looking at him, but there's something in their eyes that irks him. He can't pin it down and fights off the pout he feels coming as he nods at them before he limps past… or at least he tries to before Hershel's calling out to him. "You want me to take a look at that, son?"

Marshall freezes where he stands. His foot feels fine. It hurts a little bit when he puts too much weight on it, but it's nothing a few days of rest can't handle. "I'm alright." He can't help but smile at the face Hershel makes. He's probably thinking what a stubborn ass he's being. "Thanks, though."

Maggie's trying to hide a grin as Hershel speaks up. "Mhm. Holler if it gets any worse."

"Will do, sir."

Maggie makes a comment about how formal that was, but he's already walking on by. Outside the block he finds the others gathered around a table. The surface is covered in guns and ammo (did they grab that many?). Rick and the rest of the crew are taking stock. Smart. A few eyes turn to him, but most of them don't stick. Rick's the one to notice him last and he's got a surprised look on his face when he does, "Marshall. Didn't expect to see you down here."

Marshall rolls his shoulder uncomfortably, trying to ignore Michonne staring at him from the corner, "Yeah. I'm heading out for a smoke if that's alright."

Rick stops with a glock half assembled in his hands to watch him. His eyes are roaming over his features before he looks away, sliding the pieces of the pistol into place. "Yeah. Yeah, sure."

"Thanks."

He nods at Rick before making his way past the others. It's only a few seconds before he's scraping the metal door open and the wave of heat from the sun hits him, and it's so damn refreshing he can't help but speed up a bit until he's standing in the center of the inner courtyard. He doesn't care about the stray walkers trying to reach him through the fence. They can't reach him. He's safe. With a content sigh, he drops down to the ground and just splays out on his back, wriggling a bit to pull out the carton and lighter.

The little box flips open with a flick of his thumb and he tugs at a cigarette until he's got it tucked between his lips. He slides it into one of the pockets of his jacket before lighting the cigarette. He shut his eyes as a he took a drag and let the bliss consume him before the loud creak of the door caught his attention. Marshall groans internally when he hears footsteps closing in on him from behind. He huffs out a trail of smoke before pocketing the lighter. It was probably Rick coming to check up on him. The man gets credit for his dedication, he has to admit.

"Rick, can we please leave the threats for later? I'm not – "

He doesn't even get to finish his sentence before Daryl cuts him off. "'m not Rick."

"Shit." Marshall smacks himself on the forehead before opening his eyes to spot the hunter slouching nearby. "Sorry." He drags his spare hand down his cheek, "Did he send you to keep an eye on me?"

Daryl shrugs and fidgets with the strap of his crossbow. That was answer enough. "Ain't nothin' serious."

"Right." Marshall takes another drag before squinting up at Daryl's approaching figure. When he stops by him but doesn't say anything, Marshall squirms a little before looking past him and up at the clouds.

Daryl's giving him an odd look with a signature scowl on his face. Marshall hasn't been here long, but the hunter's got it almost every time he sees him. "The hell you doin' anyways?"

Marshall smirks, "What, I can't go for a smoke?"

"Jackass." Daryl scoffs, "Why are ya on the ground?"

Marshall takes a drag before answering, "I like watching the sky. Calms me down."

"Didn't take you for a tree hugger." Daryl comments over his shoulder as he paces over to the fence.

Marshall snorts, "I don't think a hippie would be smoking. At least not a cigarette," He adds with a short laugh before crinkling his nose. He glanced over at Daryl standing over by the fence goading the walkers before sitting up and pulling out the box from his pocket and flicking the lid open, "Want one?"

Daryl looks at him and back at the fence before pulling out his knife and jabbing the two noisy walkers through the skull and wiping it clean on the ragged trousers of one them. He turns to him and strides over with a bit of a saunter Marshall hadn't noticed before. Daryl hesitated for a second before grabbing a smoke and tucking it between his lips and mumbling, "Got a light?"

"Yeah."

Marshall thumbs through his pocket for the lighter and brings it up just in time to spot Daryl leaning down, cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Marshall hadn't taken the time to actually look, but with the evening sun hanging overhead, Daryl actually looks… handsome. The man has rough features, yeah, but… there's a charm to him. Locks of hairs just barely avoid poking into blue eyes… Blue eyes that are looking at him expectantly. Shit. He's staring. Marshall quickly flicks the flame alive and lights Daryl's cigarette before hastily tucking the lighter away again.

"Thanks" Daryl mutters before standing upright again.

Marshall rubs at his arm nervously while Daryl steps around him and stops at his side. He hears the other man exhale slowly and chances another glance up at him. Shit. He might look worn the fuck out, but he' easy on the eyes. He catches Daryl glancing at him from the side just in time to lay back down and pretend he hadn't just been staring at him again. Stupid. Marshall glances up at the orange-tinged sky. Sometimes he wishes he could just hide up there in the clouds. It's the one part of Earth that still seems untouched. The world's still spinning even though civilization went right into the gutter. They're on their own. Marshall closes his eyes and just lets the nicotine do its job.

Daryl stirs beside him and Marshall's guessing he's sitting down from the sound of it, "Lil warm for a jacket."

"It's almost winter." He lies. He doesn't know why he does, but he regrets it the second he hears Daryl hum. It's the kind of hum someone makes when they know they're being bullshitted. Marshall sighs in between drags before clearing his throat, "A few months back, I got bit."

"What?" Marshall doesn't have to look to know that Daryl's starting right at him, tense.

"Yeah." Marshall opens his eyes then and lifts his left arm up before tugging his sleeve down a bit. "Right here." He points at his wrist where a large scar burn marred his skin. The bite mark's almost hidden under the burn. The edge of his leather sleeve is half chewed off. "If I hadn't been wearing this, the son of a bitch would've bit off a chunk."

"You let a walker sneak up on ya?" Daryl's staring at the scar. It makes him uncomfortable.

Marshall huffs before tugging the sleeve back up to cover the scar, "Kinda hard to when you're tied up." Daryl's eyes shoot to his face and Marshall catches a flash of recognition run through them.

"Shit, 'm sorry, didn't mean ta – " Daryl's fumbling over his words.

"Easy, now." Marshall's got a smirk on his lips, half enjoying the sight of Daryl trying to apologize. "It's all right. " Marshall takes another drag of his cigarette and resigns himself to watching to clouds. The two of them sit outside smoking in amiable silence until someone comes calling for them. It's when he's standing up and sneaking a glance at the setting sun that he realizes something...

Things are starting to look up.


	8. Echoes

**Chapter 8: Echoes**

* * *

"You should tell 'im."

Marshall gives Daryl a look matching how tired he winds up sounding. "What?" He'd only been up for a good twenty minutes or so. Turns out Rick ended up telling the others to let him sleep in longer again… not that he doesn't appreciate the extra sleep he managed to get, but it's starting to wear him down. The feeling of being pities isn't one he's very fond of.

Daryl shoots him a glance from the corner of his eyes, "Keepin' a secret from Rick ain't gonna help ya." He goes back to aiming his crossbow at an imaginary target on the bland walls, shifting it in his hands, probably to get a sense of its weight. If Daryl liked it, he wasn't really saying.

"I'm going to go ahead and take that as, "Thanks for the crossbow, Marsh."" Marshall's grinning sheepishly, trying to weasel out of the topic. He almost thinks he manages it when Daryl huffs, but then the hunter's dropping out of his stance and turning to face him.

Daryl's got a gleam in his eyes that makes him look away. Marshall really doesn't want to talk about this. Daryl doesn't make it any easier when he says nothing. He just scowls like he usually does, but there's something in there that bothers Marshall. Is he worried for him?

Marshall sighs before leaning against the rail. He feels Daryl's eyes boring into the back of his head. "What am I supposed to tell him? That I got bit?" He looks over his shoulder at the hunter, "What difference would it make?"

Daryl shrugs, "Should still tell 'im. You didn't turn. Maybe there's somethin' in – "

"Don't!" Marshall whirls around, jabbing his finger at Daryl's chest. It's a small subtle thing, but Daryl flinches just enough for Marshall to notice. "You think that hasn't crossed my mind? I got lucky. I don't need anyone thinking I'm some godsent cure. Not Rick, and not you." His voice cracks slightly, "I'm just some guy that should've died but didn't."

Daryl's tensing up. He looks straight at him with a confused gleam in his eyes that quickly turns into something cold. "Okay." Marshall pulls his hand back as if he were stung by the one word.

"Shit." Marshall feels himself deflating under Daryl's gaze. He pinches the bridge of his nose before speaking, "Sorry. I didn't mean to explode on you like that. I just – "

"Everything alright here?" Rick's calling out to them, sidling over to them with his thumb hooked under the belt of his holster.

"Yeah." Daryl's eyes still hadn't left him. When they finally do, it's to give a brief nod to Rick before walking away without a second glance back. Marshall watches him go. He wants to call out and try to actually apologize properly but the hunter was skulking away like a pissed off wolf. He bites his tongue (literally) when the other man was completely out of sight. Shit... He just fucked up good.

"Marshall," Rick's addressing him from behind.

He barely manages to stifle his groan before facing the ex-sheriff, "Rick."

"Good to see you're up." Rick's giving him a once-over. Marshall can tell he wants to ask what the hell just went on between him and Daryl, but he doesn't press. "Been meaning to talk to you about something."

"Yeah?" Marshall can't help but raise a brow at that. "What's up?"

"C'mon. I could use your help outside." Rick's rolling his shoulders as he speaks. Almost to Marshall's surprise, he doesn't pick up anything threatening from him. If Rick had anything bad to say to him, he wouldn't come off of this… calm. Then again, Rick was a cop… he probably knew how to hide his motives. The thought makes him feel uneasy as he follows Rick outside to the inner fence perimeter.

"What's this about?" Marshall folds his arms across his chest as he trails behind Rick. His gut won't let up on telling him Rick's going to say something he's not going to like.

"You've been here for a few days." Rick's resting his hands on his hips while looking out onto the walker-infested courtyard. Marshall takes a few tentative steps to stand beside him and catch a look of his face. "What's your opinion on the prison?"

Marshall lets his hands drop to his side and tilts his head a bit. He wasn't expecting that. "Uh. Are you asking me as an architect or…?"

"Your choice."

Marshall's eyes wander over to the courtyard, stopping on some marked graves he hadn't noticed before. Shit. There'd been a larger group before he got here. They lost people. Rick lost someone, he realizes as he remembers Rick's outburst when he first got here. "You've got a good group of people, Rick." He says honestly, "I can tell everyone cares for each other. Well… maybe not for Merle." Rick huffs a little laugh at that, "They're good. They're strong. They'll probably follow you to Hell and back.

Rick watches him as he wanders closer to the chain link fence and rests his forehead against it. "I'm lucky you let me in, you know." He peeks over at Rick and gives him a half-smile, "The last time I took a chance on a group of people, well… I already told you. So, thanks." There's a scuffling noise closing in and Marshall pushes himself away from the fence before a rotting hand jabs through a slot on the fence.

Marshall almost jumps away when Rick pats his shoulder, "Daryl vouched for you," What? Daryl did that? "And I've seen what you can do. You've given me no reason not to trust you." Rick squeezes his shoulder and Marshall wants to smile, but he can't shake the feeling that he fucked up so badly earlier. Now he knows why the group had taken a shine to him so quickly: Daryl. But… why?

"Thanks." He smiles half-heartedly before bringing a hand up to shield his eyes form the sun. He really needs to use his sunglasses more often, "Now, about the prison…" He bites at his lip as he scouts the perimeter. "The inside's fine. High ceiling means that heat won't be much of a problem. Though that also means winter won't be nice to us. The thing I'm most worried about are the fences."

"Why's that?" Rick's looking at him curiously.

"See that?" Marshall waves Rick over and points at the base of the post, "What do you see?"

Rick squints at him before answering dryly, "It's built into the concrete."

"Yeah. Now look at the outer fence." Marshall waits until Rick's looking before continuing, "The posts are built into the dirt."

Realization washes over Rick. "It's not gonna last."

"Exactly." Marshall folds his arms over his chest, resting his weight on one leg, "If we're lucky, we've got maybe three months. All depends on how many walkers we've got piling up against them."

"Any suggestions?"

"Simple," Marshall shrugs lightly, "Reinforce it." Rick's looking at him expectantly and Marshall can't help but groan internally. Never did he figure he'd wind up working on a prison. "Anything that digs into the ground is out of the question. Definitely no beams – they could give way just as easily. Best way to make sure that fence stands is to support it with some weight behind it, like a wall of junk or tires. Anything heavy that we can stack.

Marshall wipes his brow before turning to face Rick, "It won't be quick or easy, but it's definitely something we should prioritize. You know, after we deal with this Governor."

"Mhm…" Rick looks weary all of a sudden, fingers toying with his holster, "Andrea's arranging a meeting tomorrow with him."

Marshall blinks, "Who?" The name hadn't crossed his ears before. He couldn't have possibly missed someone, right? He wasn't that great at names but the group at the prison was small and he's met everyone… or so he thought.

"That's right, you didn't get a chance to meet her. We had you in the other cellblock when she arrived. We all thought she was dead. Now it turns out she's living under the same roof as the Governor. She can't tell how twisted he is." Rick sighs deeply, "I'm expecting tomorrow to go to shit."

Rick's tension's almost tangible. It makes Marshall want to take a step back. "Do you want me to come with?"

"No," Rick says a little too quickly, "You've already done enough, and you're hurt. Daryl's with me tomorrow.

"Oh." The mention of the hunter feels like a punch in his gut again. His ankle and the stiches on his neck almost pulse at the mention of his being injured. It's a hard thing to acknowledge, but Rick's right. He's out of commission for now. "Well, if that's all you wanted to talk about, Rick, I'm going back inside." Maybe there he could actually do something useful. Marshall manages to take one step before Rick's stopping him.

"Wait." Rick clasps a hand on his shoulder, and his demeanor shifted. He didn't seem concerned anymore. Actually, he looks grateful. "I meant to thank you."

"Thank me?" Marshall doesn't fight against Rick's hand, but he's staring at him like he'd just said something crazy.

"I saw what you tried to do back in King County." Oh. "You put your life at risk to try and save mine."

"I…" Marshall's at a loss for words. He wasn't expecting to hear about this. "It's nothing, Rick." Marshall makes to leave again, but Rick's grip tightens.

"That's not all. I want to apologize for Carl. He shouldn't have done what he did."

There it is, and at that mention, Marshall jerks away roughly. "No shit." The words escape his mouth quicker than he can try to catch them. Now he has to explain himself. "Look, Rick, I'm willing to look past that. It happened. I'm still alive. No biggie." Rick seems a little relieved at that, "But you should keep an eye on him. There's something wrong in him, and if you don't try and steer him in the right direction, he's going to be lost."

He didn't say anything wrong, he knows that much, but Rick's looking right at him then, jaw tense and unspeaking. Maybe it was just something Rick was trying to ignore and all Marshall did was toss it right at his face. Either way, he feels more uncomfortable now that he did ten seconds before. "Trust me on this, Rick." He nods at the other man before turning to make his way back inside the prison.

He stops halfway there. Daryl's words ring in his head, _"You should tell 'im."_ It's an unexplainable feeling he's got welling up inside of him. He wants to do right by Daryl. He has to, but… he can't bring himself to do it. He balls his hands into fists when he starts walking again, hating himself just a little bit more for not having the courage to follow through.

. : | * | : .

Marshall feels like he's used up all his words for the day. It seemed like most everyone at the prison wasn't in the mood for casual chit-chat. It makes sense, he figures. If what he'd gathered was right, tomorrow could go one of two ways. One, somehow Rick manages to negotiate with the Governor or two, they were going to war. That's guaranteed to kill almost anyone's mood. Which sucks, considering all he's been trying to do after talking to Rick is keep himself busy.

Carol was nice enough to let him help her out with laundry. She didn't ask why he was so eager to help, something he appreciates. They talked, joked around a bit, and Marshall wound up with a bit more clothing to change into. He just hoped he didn't wind up stealing someone's clothes thanks to Carol. He really should've done as he planned and scouted for some clothes back in King County, but… shit happens.

Now he's just sitting on his own, poking at the few bits of corn left on his plate with a fork. It's a bit of a drag just… being idle. At least indoors, but it's not like he's got much of an option. He'd tried keeping an eye out for Daryl the last few hours between helping out and, well, doing nothing. The man was good at staying out of sight when he didn't want to be found, he has to give him credit for that. Marshall sighs before putting the plate down.

The day's almost over with. As much as he might dread it, he needs to set things right. He wonders what the odds are that things can go back to normal. Shit, the way that Daryl was looking at him… he looked like he'd stabbed him in the back, and, fuck, maybe he did. All he was doing was offering advice, and he went and pulled that stunt. Marshall rubs his eyes before getting up to ask around and see if anyone had a clue where the hunter had run off to.

And… of course, no one seemed to know. Hell, he figured Maggie would probably have an idea, but she didn't know. Neither did Carol. Or Beth. Or Glenn. Marshall groans in frustration. This was turning out to be a lot more of a hassle than he planned on it being. Where the hell can someone hide run off to in a prison anyways? Then it hit him. Merle. They were brothers, it made sense he'd go and hang around his brother, but Rick kept him in a separate block on his own. A chill runs down his spine at the thought of being alone with the other Dixon. Yeah… he wasn't going to go find him without any weapons.

Marshall makes a quick run to his cell to grab his pick and hook it onto his belt. Just as he's about to leave, he glances back at his rucksack, remembering something he's got inside. Was he willing to resort to bribery to get back good with Daryl? … Maybe. He snatches it and puts it on, just in case. Now he just has to find Merle. Shouldn't be that hard, considering the guy's got a fucking knife for a hand. He's also not that quiet, judging by the amount of noise he hears coming from the other cell block.

"Well, shit. Lookie here," Merle's got a sly grin plastered on his face as he turns to face him, "Gotta admit, you're the last person I expected crawlin' around here, boy. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Now he remembers why he hadn't made the time to talk to this guy. "Can it."

"oo, easy." Merle lets out a little laugh before going back to polishing his blade. "I see ya still just as friendly as before. What, ya ain't happy being Rick's bitch?"

Marshall rolls his eyes, taking a few steps into the block. "I'm good."

"Then why're ya here?" Merle's got a menacing gleam in his eyes, "Rick didn't send ya to do somethin' stupid, did he? Won't go well for you, boy."

Marshall scowls at the name, "I don't think he really cares."

"And yet ya come 'ere with that." Merle looks between Marshall and the pick on his belt.

"No offense, but you've got a knife for a hand. I wasn't coming here unarmed."

"Smart boy." Merle's smiling again and Marshall can't stand looking at him anymore. "But that don't tell me why you're here."

"What, I can't come here for the company?"

Merle scoffs at that, "I ain't your kind of company. You lookin' for a favor or somethin'?"

"I guess I am."

"What ya want?"

"No one's seen Daryl since this morning. I figured he'd be around here."

Merle's scowl meets his eyes, "The hell d'you want with my baby brother?"

Marshall decides to be honest. "I wanted to apologize to him. Said some shit I shouldn't have. I owe him more than that." And maybe he should've just lied.

The wall's just as hard as he expects when he's slammed into it. Merle's pressing his forearm against his throat, keeping him pinned tight against the wall and struggling to breathe. Merle's got his right arm pinned, probably assuming that he was right-handed like most everyone else.. He can feel his breath on his face when he speaks, "The fuck you up to, boy? Can't tell if you're just another pussy like the rest of 'em or if you're just a fuckin' pillow biter." Merle sneers at him, "That what you are?"

Marshall fights the urge to claw at the pressure on his throat and reaches for his pick instead. He's got it pressed against the older Dixon's neck in a few seconds. "E-ease up." The words come out a little strangled. He grunts in pain when Merle does the exact opposite. "Ease. Up." He repeats with a little more effort, pressing the tip of the pick in.

Merle shoves him back against the wall, slicing at his face before pulling back. "Oops." He's got a wicked grin on his face while he licks his lips. He's trying to goad him.

Marshall brings a hand up to the burning spot on his cheek. His fingers come back red. He knows what Merle wants. He needs to be level headed, but he just wants to beat that smirk off of his face. Seeing his own blood just tipped him over. "You piece of shit!" He swings wildly at Merle's head, but the other man just ducks and tackles him straight into the wall. His pick clatters away from his reach.

"You're gonna regret doin' that, boy!" Merle's jabbing him in the gut, but Marshall's jamming his elbow in his back repeatedly to get him to let go. Merle roars loudly before pulling him away from the wall and shoving him onto the ground. He tries to clamber onto his feet but Merle beats him back down with a blow to head. "Ain't gonna be that easy!"

Marshall's head is reeling. Adrenaline's rushing through his head. Don't let the blade touch. He grabs onto Merle's wrists to try and wrestle control away from him, but the older Dixon just slams his forehead against his and his grip falters. Merle punches him straight in the eye and Marshall sees stars. "C'mon!" Merle's yelling right in his face, "Are you just gonna lay there like a bitch?!"

Something snaps inside of Marshall, like a crack on a dam. Something he's been keeping buried away breaks loose, and he's looking up at Merle with wide eyes full of panic. "No!" He pushes Merle with enough force to throw him off. He scrambles onto his feet before the other man can manage to and kicks out his knee from behind, forcing the redneck onto the ground. His panic turns to rage as he pins Merle face first to the ground. He manages to grab his head and slam it against the concrete floor once before someone's hooking their arms under his and lifting him off.

He struggles against whoever's pulling him away from Merle. He wants to beat the man's face in. There's so much rage flooding his head he barely registers the voice calling out to him. "Marshall!" It's Rick. He won't let go. "Calm down!"

Merle's starting to get up, and when Marshall sees that he's still got a grin on his face even as he wipes away blood from his nose, he tries thrashing free from Rick's grasp. "You caught yourself a fighter."

Rick's yelling then, and it's enough to make Marshall to freeze up. "What the hell happened?"

Merle's looking right at Marshall, and his blood's still boiling, but he doesn't fight against Rick anymore. "Just a scuffle between friends. Ain't that right, boy?"

"Fuck you!" Marshall spits out and Merle just laughs.

"See, Officer? Just that."

"You," Rick's turning Marshall away from Merle, "I'll be having a chat with you later."

The sound of Merle's laughter echoes down the corridors as Rick leads him back to their respective cell block. He finally lets go of Marshall once they're back, and he can't help but growl once he's loose. He's pissed. Both at Merle and at himself. He shrugs his rucksack off before pulling out a rag and pressing it to the gash on his cheek to stop the bleeding. He can already feel his eye swelling a bit.

"What the hell was that?" Rick's got his authoritative tone on full throttle. Marshall doesn't answer right away, but notices a small crowd forming.

He turns away from them to hide his injuries. He glowers at Rick, "He attacked me."

Rick's frowning at him, "What were you doing over there?"

Marshall sighs, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. "I went to check if Daryl was hanging around his douchebag brother."

"Why?"

"I wanted to apologize. For this morning." He explains, running his spare hand through the waves of his hair, "No one else seemed to know where he was, so I figured I'd check if he was with Merle."

"You should've just asked me."

"You were busy."

Rick's pinching the bridge of his nose, "Daryl volunteered to take watch tonight. He's been up in the tower the last two hours." Rick looks up at him, his frustration seemingly having dissipated. "You should let Hers-"

"No." Marshall shakes his head. "I can take care of these on my own. I'm not completely useless."

"I'm not sayi-"

"I'm fine."

Marshall doesn't give Rick the opportunity to say anything else. He shoulders his rucksack before making his way to the watchtower, ignoring the murmurs he hears behind him. He knows he's being stubborn, but he's so used to taking care of himself that suddenly having to rely on someone else so often… it just feels wrong to him. He mutters something under his breath before pocketing the rag in his back pocket once he finally makes it to the watchtower. The ladder clangs loudly with each rung he climbs. Once he poked his up at the top, Daryl looks about to ready to tell him to fuck off, but it quickly fades away. He can't help but smile sheepishly at the hunter.

"The hell happened to you?" Daryl's got his feet kicked up against the wall, leaning back into the single chair in the tower.

Marshall hoists himself up inside before letting himself fall on his ass near Daryl. He tugs the rag loose from his pocket and brings it back to his cheek, "Your brother happened, believe it or not?"

"Merle? The hell'd he give you a shiner for?" Daryl's squinting at him. Marshall can tell he wants to be mad at him, but right now he just seems concerned. Maybe a little bit pissed at his brother. He can't tell.

Marshall shrugs before scooting back against the low wall and letting his head fall back onto it. "Fuck if I know. I was trying to find you but couldn't so I figured you might be with Merle. I tell him I can't find you and next thing I know he's got me pinned to the wall and shit hit the fan. That about sums it up."

Daryl hums quietly, absentmindedly chewing on his nails. "Sounds like Merle."

"He's always like that?"

"Yeah."

"Got him back though. I think I broke his nose."

Daryl doesn't say anything then, so Marshall decides to close his eyes and just… rest a little bit. His face hurts like a bitch, and shit, he's just piling on the injuries.

"What do you want?" Daryl's asks, low and menacing, but not as much as Marshall figures it'd be if he hadn't gotten beat on by Merle. His blue eyes are cold as ice when Marshall finally opens his own to look at him. As silly as it sounds, having Daryl look at him like that almost hurts more than Merle's punches.

"I wanted to say sorry." Marshall's pulling up his knees to his chest, "I shouldn't have yelled this morning. You were just trying to help. I just… got scared, you know? People overreact. They don't stop to think. I don't want Rick to think I'm a liability." Marshall sighs, "But, I'll tell him, okay? I owe you that much."

"What?"

"Rick told me you vouched for me. I don't know why. I mean, you don't even know me, but you took a chance with me outside the fence. You didn't have to trust me, but you did. And then you vouched for me. Shit, I owe you my life, man." Marshall lets out a little laugh, smiling at Daryl.

Daryl's got his eyes on him, but he doesn't say anything. At least he doesn't look angry anymore, so Marshall figures he can consider this his victory of the day.

"I brought something I thought you'd like, but I figure I might need it a little bit right about now…" Marshall weasels out of the straps of his rucksack and digs inside to pull out a flask. "Whiskey." He grins as he uncaps it and takes a long swig before offering it to Daryl, "Consider it a gift."

"Didn't take you for a drinker." Daryl's eying the silver flask suspiciously before he takes it into his hand. "C'mere."

Marshall blinks, "What?"

Before he knows it, Daryl's yanking the rag away from him and roughly wiping at the cut on his cheek. Marshall's about to ask what the hell he's doing when he suddenly pours some of the alcohol on the open cut.

"Fuck!" Marshall flinches away, "What the hell was that for?"

"Disinfectin'." Daryl grumbles before handing him back the rag and leaning back into his chair again. Marshall watches him take a drink before he's glancing back at him, "Shit, this is good. The hell're you doin' carryin' this stuff around anyways?"

Marshall puts pressure on the cut before smiling through the pain, "I carry around a lot of shit. Got some firecrackers in here, even."

Daryl's raising an eyebrow then, "Doesn't answer my question."

"You mean the booze?" Daryl nods at him and Marshall shrugs. "I thought I might need it to get some sleep a few months back. Never actually drank from it."

They're quiet then, content to just sit in silence and sharing drinks. Daryl's drinking slowly, for good reason. He needs to be ready for tomorrow, Marshall realizes, but this… this was nice. He gets to watch Daryl unwind a little and all of Marshall's worries throughout the day start to ease away. He owes him everything he's got right now. All because he took a chance on him. He laughs a little at the thought that crosses his mind: he's like a stray that got taken in on a chance, and now he's got a home.

Daryl's squinting at him then, "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." Marshall laughs again when Daryl looks at him even more suspiciously, "I'm serious, but hey, you're heading out with Rick tomorrow, right?" He already knows the answer, but he still asks.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Just be careful, yeah?" Marshall's got a pit of worry gnawing at his stomach, and he feels like he's pleading to Daryl. It's probably just the drinks, but Daryl's looking straight at him as though he's trying to figure him out. Eventually his eyes soften.

"Alright."


	9. Isolation

**Chapter 9: Isolation**

* * *

Watching them leave is one of the hardest things he's done in years.

It feels as though he's watching them march off to their death. Hell, with the amount of shit he keeps hearing about Woodbury and the Governor, they might as well be. He should be there with them, making sure that they manage to get away from whatever bullshit the Governor's bound to try. The whole plan's incredibly rocky, but Rick trusts in Andrea so… Marshall chose to just keep quiet. Rick's got Daryl to back him. They'll be fine, he tells himself.

He can't hide his frown when the SUV finally vanishes into the tree line. That could be the last time he sees them. It could be the last time he sees Daryl, and fuck… the thought of the hunter dying before he actually gets a chance to properly thank him makes standing around agonizing, especially under the warm Georgian sun. He sighs softly as he looks up at the clear blue sky. There's not a single cloud out today. It's a beautiful. He digs the hell of his boots into the ground softly before tearing his gaze away and heading back inside. Hopefully everyone comes back today. Rick, Daryl, and Hershel – they're all coming back.

Marshall digs his hands into his pockets as he wanders into the common room, feeling just a little bit lost all over again. They're all going about their business as though nothing serious had just happened. It only manages makes him frown a little deeper. Is he just… broken? The thought's crossed his mind a few times. Being alone's never been a good thing for anyone, even before everything went to shit. Maybe there's something wrong with him. Maybe it's just a matter of faith. In Rick, in God, maybe even in fucking life itself.

He chews at his lower lip before skulking back to his little corner on the second floor, not really sure about what to do with himself. Something catches his eye while he's making his way up the stairs: there's something hanging off the door to his cell. His steps are light as he makes his way over to the entryway. Marshall stares down at the pick hooked between two bars for a moment. It's his pick, he realizes. He'd dropped it over in the other block… Rick must've gone back for it.

He takes three steps inside before he's flinging the pick onto his bunk a little too roughly. Rick doesn't make any fucking sense to him. One day he's threatening him, the next he's trying to understand him and accommodate him. Maybe it's got something to do with the man's time as a sheriff, but it's got him all rattled up. How the fuck is he supposed to trust Rick when he's still got his threat looming over him? It's like an open sore left to fester and boy does he feel it.

He needs to talk to Rick about it. He has to, but right now he's more worried about whether or not they'll be coming back. Fuck, he feels absolutely useless. Looking down at the faded brown shirt he's got on doesn't really help. Beth had given him a little laugh earlier. Apparently, he'd managed to grab one of the shirts Rick tended to use. He huffs into the quiet of his cell before rolling up his sleeves and stretching a little bit. He really needs to go on a run for his own clothes soon.

If what his gut's telling him is right, then there's probably going to be a fight coming soon. Maybe not today, but definitely in the next few days. Probably following right behind Rick. He might not be able to help out in the field today, but the least he can do is try and prepare. At least that way he can keep his mind off the soreness ebbing from his eye. Thankfully, no one'd said anything about the blues and reds around it. He groans softly before wandering to the center of his cell and dropping to the ground to start doing some pushups.

He needs to stay strong. He's not the bulkiest guy out there, yeah, but he's strong enough to survive on his own. That alone should be enough to speak for him, but… he's been way too fucking idle these last few days. He's falling out of rhythm. Used to be that just living through the day was his exercise, but now that he's cooped up under the thumb of the Governor… well, it's not helping him feel any more at home. It's only when he flips over to do some sit-ups that he realizes he's got more damage than he realized.

He whines in pain as he falls flat onto his back, clutching at his midsection. He shuts his eyes for a moment and letting the ache simmer down before untucking his shirt and lifting it up to take a glance. Great. A growl almost escapes his lips when he spots the splotchy bruises peeking out beneath the patches of hair on his stomach. Merle really did a number on him, but at least he's got the satisfaction of knowing he managed to break the fucker's nose. If Rick hadn't been there…

With a rough shake of his head, that line of thought is gone. He'd lost control. Shit, he would've tried killing the redneck if there wasn't anyone to stop him. He doesn't bother tucking his shirt in when he pats it back down. He isn't going to let a few bruises slow him down. It might hurt, but he has to keep at it. He's already had enough sick days. He grunts as he forces himself through the sit-ups, followed by curl ups.

The amount of noise he's making goes right by him until he's latching onto the metal frame of the entryway and hoisting himself up for some pull-ups. He manages to do five reps before he notices someone climbing up the stairs. Maggie's got a curious look on her face as she makes her way over to him. Marshall doesn't really do much to acknowledge her asides from huffing out a quick 'Hey'.

"You alright?" Maggie asks him..

Marshall stops mid-pull and studies her face. Why's she here? "Yeah." He grunts out before starting again.

"Didn't sound like it." Marshall hears her laugh a little, "Sounded more like a dog keeling over."

Marshall freezes for a second before dropping down onto his feet with a loud thud. He can feel the blush starting to creep onto his cheeks before he even manages to stutter out a response. "Shit." He rubs the back of his neck, taking deep breaths. He hadn't even realized the sweat he'd built up. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." She smiles at him but it quickly fades away once she spots his eye. Her eyes set hard, "Merle?"

Marshall lets out a hoarse bitter laugh, but he doesn't answer. When he sees her brows furrowing and a hint of concern gleaming in her eyes, he sighs. "The one and only."

"What happened yesterday?" The question makes Marshall dart his eyes away from her. This is exactly why he'd run off. People were bound to ask questions if they saw him, but he didn't manage to slip away fast enough. "We saw Rick drag you back in here. That's about all we know…" She's watching him. He knows she is, but he hesitates.

The air's tense between them. Marshall shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. Eventually, he drags his palm across his face before scratching at his scruff and relenting. "I went to talk to Merle."

"You went to talk to Merle?" Maggie repeats, and the way she says it… Yeah. It does sound like a shit idea.

"Yeah." He turns from her and pulls out a bottle of water from his rucksack before facing her again. "No one knew where Daryl was, so I figured he was with his brother." He shrugs his shoulders before uncapping the bottle. "He wasn't there. Merle got pissed. I got this." He points at his eye while taking a big gulp.

Maggie hums a little as she takes a step closer, "Looks bad." She reaches out to touch the swollen area and Marshall flinches away instinctively, damn near spilling water over himself. "Sorry."

"It's alright." He mumbles weakly, surprised at his own reaction. "Just a little tender. I probably still look better than I did in my high school prom photo." He offers her a sheepish grin.

That gets a big smile out of her, and Marshall can't help but blink at how beautiful the older Greene sister is when she's genuine. Glenn's a lucky guy. She's got her hands on her hips when she cocks her head at him, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "Why don't you come join me and Beth downstairs? We can just talk, if you want." At his hesitation, she smirks, "Or you can just stay up here makin' noise."

Marshall lets out a little laugh, not really sure how to respond. Used to be that a little bit of kindness was something he wouldn't bat an eye at, but it still manages to trip him up now. Human contact's one hell of a thing. "Uh. " He stutters for a second before beaming at her. "Yeah, sure. I'd like that." God, he really is fucked, but… maybe it's not as bad as he keeps making it out to be.

"Well good." Maggie gives him a small smile before turning to head back down. "You're one of us now. Ain't no need to be shy."

Marshall follows behind her and makes a little noise of surprise, "I'm not shy." His boots clang down the metal stairs while he gives her an odd look. Maggie glances back over her shoulder just in time to catch it and flash him a toothy grin.

"Please, you're almost as bad as Daryl, runnin' off on your smoke breaks. I'm starting to think you don't like us." Maggie teases.

"No… no, that's not it." Marshall pauses with a frown. Is that really the impression he'd been giving them? He's grateful for the opportunity they've given him, he's just… Sometimes he doesn't really know how to talk to them. He's not even sure it's possible for him to go back to being who he used to be. That Marshall's gone. The new Marshall is still a stranger to him sometimes. "I'm just not used to all of… this." He gestures widely to everything.

Maggie gives him a quiet, contemplative look before speaking, trying to catch his eyes, "Hey, it's alright. I was just messing with you."

"I want to explain, though." Marshall draws his arms close, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt to try and comfort himself, a habit he picked up from his history with his jacket. "I don't run off to avoid you guys. When I was out there alone, I used to sleep on rooftops mostly. Maybe trees sometimes. I get anxious indoors. Makes me start to shake. Rick and Daryl caught on the first night. It's why I go out for smoke breaks every now and then."

The way Maggie's watching him makes him want to run. It's a sad look of understanding he's getting, but just as Maggie's about to speak up, there's a lot of clatter coming from the common room. Marshall's silently grateful for the distraction, or at least he is until they find out Merle's the one making a racket, shoving guns upon guns into a duffel bag. Marshall glares at the redneck. He's going to get them all killed. A scowl's all Merle's getting from him.

"Hey," Glenn calls out, apparently having just come back inside. "You're not going."

Merle doesn't stop. "I don't need permission." His gaze wanders up and locks with Marshall's for a second. He huffs before going back to loading the bag.

"I can't let you."

"You can't stop me." Merle spits out, challenging him..

Maggie tenses up a bit. Her eyes never leave Merle. "If you're going to live here, it's going to be on our terms." Merle grabs the bag and starts to leave. "If Michonne and Marshall can do it, why can't you?"

Marshall folds his arms across his chest at the mention of his name. It's always made him uncomfortable to hear people talk about him like that even though he's standing right there, but… it's an acknowledgement of his presence. He's there. He's living with them on their terms. It's like Maggie said… He's one of them now.

Merle stops where he stands. For a second, Marshall worries that he might try and do something stupid. Merle turns then and raises his voice, "'cause it's my brother out there, that's why!" He scoffs at them before charging off with the guns in tow, "What's the matter with y'all?"

Glenn blocks him off at the exit, "I'm not going to let you put them in danger."

"Nut up already, boy!" Merle barks out, "This guy cops a feel of your woman and you pussy out like this?" Did he hear that right? Marshall's eyes wander to the back of Maggie's head. There's something he doesn't know. "Get out of my way."

"No."

Marshall should do something, he knows he should, but he doesn't. It's not his place. Merle's got a short fuse and this might just be enough to set him off. When Glenn doesn't move aside, Merle tries shoving him to the side, but Glenn's quick to retaliate and tackles the other man. The two of them tumble down the small staircase, but Merle's the one to land on top.

He and Maggie snap into action the second Merle pins Glenn down. Maggie gets there first, putting the redneck into a chokehold "Get off of him." She shouts, but Merle keeps trying to stab him with his prosthetic. Marshall grabs hold of his forearm and twists it back to the point he knows it'd hurt. "You should probably listen to her." He grunts out, "Wouldn't want another broken bone." He'd be lying if he said he wasn't getting a kick out of hurting the other man.

A gunshot rings loudly through the building. Everyone turns to find Beth aiming a handgun up at the ceiling. The Beth he's seeing isn't the sweet, innocent girl he thought of. She's got a hard look on her face and it almost unsettles him seeing her like that. Merle's yelling against their grip, telling them to let him go. Marshall clicks his tongue in annoyance before roughly shoving him away.

Everyone scatters quickly after that. Maggie doesn't seem so eager to sit down for a chat anymore, and… it actually kind of bothers him, but he understands. Glenn seemed a bit shaken up when he wandered off. Maggie had given him a quick apology before chasing after him. Beth was the next one out, going back to caring after Judith. She'd given him a sad little smile and he realized that girl is so much more than he thought. She's just as strong as the others.

And then there's just three. Marshall doesn't feel comfortable leaving Merle alone after his stunt, and Michonne's off packing a bag for herself but she soon makes for the cellblock instead. Not two seconds pass before Merle's on her tail, but Marshall keeps his distance. He chews on his lip as he sits down on one of the steps to the exit, watching the two of them like a hawk. Whatever the hell they're talking about doesn't seem to convince Michonne, who promptly turns and leaves Merle alone at the gate.

"What about you?" Merle suddenly turns to him after a few seconds of standing still, "You also gonna pussy out and do nothin'?"

"You're asking me?" Marshall asks with a laugh. "No offense, but you can go fuck yourself."

Merle scoffs and waves him off, "Yeah, yeah. You don't gotta like me, boy, but you know I'm right."

Marshall rolls his eyes before leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, "Do you even realize what you're asking me to do?"

Merle doesn't answer, but judging by the look on his face, he's guessing he does.

Marshall stands up and wipes his hands on his jeans, "You're asking me to betray whatever trust Rick's got with me for a suicide mission." He narrows his eyes at Merle, daring him to challenge him. "That's not going to happen."

Merle shakes his head, veins popping out on his forehead in anger, "The hell's wrong with y'all? Fuck this."

And then it's just him. Marshall sighs and lets his head fall into his hands. Merle's right. He hates that Merle's right, but the most logical course of action to eliminate a threat is to get rid of it before it's able to retaliate. It makes sense, but… there's no way he can betray the trust everyone's placed on him. He doesn't really feel he deserves it, but… he's got it. That means more to him than he realized.

It's a bit too quiet for his liking right now. The only thing he hears is his own breathing and the distant sound of Beth cooing at Judith. There's nothing to keep his thoughts from wandering. Rick, Daryl, and Hershel… He shivers at the thought of them not coming back. He wouldn't be able to stay here if they didn't. A knot forms in his stomach as he sits there wondering before he's had enough.

He makes a quick detour to his cell and grabs his gear (and not forgetting his sunglasses this time around) before heading outside. The sun beating down against his skin's a welcome feeling but he's not out here for relaxing… at least not yet. He slips on his shades before scanning over the exterior of the prison, noting that it's got a mostly slanted roof. That's good for preventing water from collecting, but not so great for trying to make a little cot on. His eyes wander to the small overpass connecting the two cellblocks before grinning. "Jackpot."

Twirling his pick in his hand, he walks over to it before hopping up and hooking onto the fence, heaving himself up and climbing the rest of the way up until he's sitting comfortably on top with his feet dangling over the ledge. From here, he's got a perfect view of the field and dirt road leading out of the prison. It's a little exposed, maybe, but it's nothing he can't fix with a bit of wood and metal. Toss in a futon, a pillow, and some blankets, and he's got his own little nest away from home.

Marshall sighs, his worries from before slipping away with every second. He can keep watch from here. If anyone comes up the road, he'll be ready, but for now… he's just ready to kick back and just not worry. He sets his gear down beside him and promptly undoes the buttons of his shirt before leaning back down, smiling a little at the warmth coming from both the hot concrete and the sun on his chest. It's almost therapeutic being splayed out like he is. He could just lay there like that without a second thought.

So he does.

It's only when he hears the distant sound of an engine that he jolts back up. He's on his feet with his bow in hand in a few seconds, staring through the scope of his bow at the tree line, waiting for a visual confirmation on who's closing in. He lets out a shuddery breath he didn't realize he was holding when a familiar SUV comes into sight. They're alive. There's a little laugh bubbling in his chest as he shoulders his bow and grabs his pick to make his back down. He dashes to the fence just in time to open it for the group.

Marshall tips his shades up into his hair before wiping his hands on his jeans, walking toward where Rick and the others were stepping out of the car. They all seem in one piece, and he can't help but smile at that. "I was starting to get a little worried." He jokes.

Rick gives him a gruff response, "Inside."

He bites his tongue when Rick doesn't even spare him a glance before heading inside. Hershel gives him an apologetic look when he passes. Shit. That's never a good sign. His eyes wander over to Daryl who's slinging his crossbow over his back, trying to get some answers out of him. "That bad?"

"Mhm." Daryl mumbles before looking at him, but his eyes wander down and Marshall's suddenly self-conscious.

His hands wander back to button up his shirt, feeling a heat rising up into his cheeks and ears. God, he hopes Daryl doesn't notice that. He lags behind a bit to tuck away his sunglasses and try and compose himself a bit before leaning against the wall near Daryl where Rick's got everyone gathering in a circle. Rick looks out at all of them, eyes set hard before he clears his throat.

"So," Rick starts, "I met this governor. Sat with him for quite a while."

Merle's quick to cut him off, "Just the two of you?"

"Yeah."

Merle's shaking his head before shoving his way past Glenn, "Should've gone when we had the chance, bro,"

"He wants the prison. He wants us gone." Marshall's eyes lock on Rick. The way he's talking, the way he's acting… It's nothing short of bad. "Dead. He wants us dead, for what we did to Woodbury." Marshall feels a chill run down his spine. Especially with what Rick says next, "We're going to war."

Marshall clamps his eyes shut. Maybe Merle had been right days ago. Maybe he should've just left and pretended he'd never run into this group. He shakes the thoughts loose before opening his eyes. This group… Rick, Daryl, Michonne…they're his group now. Might as well be his family. And the prison? Well… it's just as good a home as any. There's no more room for doubt. He's in this for the long haul. This can be a good thing.

He follows Daryl up to his perch, stopping by him, "Hey," Daryl peers over his shoulder at him, "You think you can teach me to hunt after all this shit clears?"

Daryl faces him and chews at his thumbnail. He's quiet for a bit before he asks, "Why?"

Marshall shrugs, "I want to do something other than sit on my ass all day."

That gets a huff of a laugh out of Daryl, "Makes sense." The hunter's watching him, and Marshall feels himself shrink a little in the silence that follows. He doesn't really know what to say, but… it didn't sound like a no. That's enough to get a small smile out of him. He starts turning to leave when Daryl speaks up again, "The hell were you doin' up there, anyways?"

Oh. Marshall laughs and tilts his head a bit, "It's, uh, a bit of story. You sure you want to hear it?"

Daryl shrugs but his eyes don't leave him. "Ain't got nothin' better to do."

Marshall smirks. That's a yes.


	10. Respite

**Chapter 10: Respite**

* * *

"Little more… little more… And, you're good!"

Marshall flashes a toothy grin and gives a thumbs up at the car parked below the overpass before wiping his brow. The day's still young, and he figures if he's going to stick around the prison, he might as well start doing something a bit more productive with his spare time. Rick already asked him to help out with this and that, but… if he's going to stay, he might as well start off with something personal. 'course, he just needs someone else's help right now.

"Remind me again why I agreed to this," Daryl huffs out as he steps out of the car. He brings a hand to shield his eyes before looking up at Marshall.

Marshall barks out a laugh, "Oh, quit your whining." He drops to a crouch near the ledge and points lightly at the stack of wood and metal panels he'd managed to scrounge up the night before near the cell block's entrance. "Come on, pass that up for me, could you?"

Daryl mumbles something before walking over to the pile and heaving up one of the larger metal scraps, and… he gets a little distracted, Daryl isn't wearing his jacket today, just his vest. Marshall'll be damned, but hell if watching those arms flex isn't a sight to see. He can't help but bite at his lower lip while the hunter clambers onto the roof of the car. God, he really shouldn't be looking at him like that.

"Why d'ya even need all this shit?" Daryl grunts out, and his voice snaps Marshall back to attention, promptly grabbing the panel and hoisting it up.

Marshall sets it down beside him before resting his hands on his knees, "Rick wants me to work on 'fortifying' the prison."

"Fortify?" Daryl squints at him, "The hell d'you know about fortifyin'?"

"Ouch," Marshall jokes, pretending to have been shot through the heart, earning him a mumbled 'jackass' from Daryl. "I'm no engineer, but I was about to be a licensed architect before everything went down the drain. Used to be that I figured I'd be coming up with plans and designs for modern lake houses." Marshall shrugs lightly at that before glancing down at Daryl, "Now I've got Rick asking me to find ways to make sure the prison stands."

"How is this fortifyin'?" Daryl asks before stepping down to grab the next item. He's trying to hide it, but Marshall can tell he's a little curious.

"It's not." Daryl frowns at that before passing up the panel, "Not really." Marshall places it on top of the other before laughing, "I figured, if I'm going to be working on everything, I might as well start with something a little personal."

"Yeah? This about yesterday?"

Marshall nods, "You got it. I figured I'd start off with making a little, uh… nest, I guess." He shrugs and flashes Daryl a small grin, "You know, a little spot reserved for me." He peers down at Daryl, hoping to find some sort of curiosity or something in those slate blue eyes but… there's something completely different shining in them. It's not curiosity. Hell, it's not even irritation.

"Mm." Daryl mumbles out, breaking eye contact. Marshall frowns a bit but says nothing. He didn't do anything wrong, did he?

"Hey," He calls out, drawing the other man's tentative gaze. He gives him a small smile before pointing at the rest of the pile with his chin, "There's still some more to go."

"Right." Daryl chews at his thumbnail before hopping back down and getting the next panel. They're quiet for the next few seconds while Daryl passes up the wood and metal for Marshall to stack on top of the little bridge. He scratches at the back of his neck when Daryl goes to grab the last wood plank. A realization dawns on him, and it stirs in his chest. He doesn't want him to run off on him again. The last time… His hand wanders over to the tender blotches of and yellows, blues, and reds around his eye. Daryl looks about ready to bolt by the time Marshall finally has his hands free.

"You up for a smoke?" Marshall finds himself asking. It's the one thing he figures might be able to leash Daryl down for a little while longer. Daryl eyes him warily before glancing over to the entrance of the prison, "Unless you've got something else to be doing."

Daryl tugs at the strap of his crossbow for a few seconds, before glancing up at Marshall. "Alright." He mutters a little nervously.

"Good."

Marshall smiles at him before scooting over slightly and stretches out his arm, offering Daryl a hand up. The hunter stares at it a second before almost reluctantly wrapping his hand around his forearm while Marshall boosts him up. He can't help but laugh a little on the inside. Little victories, he reminds himself. That's what makes life worthwhile. Daryl plops down beside him, legs dangling off the edge while he fidgets with his hands.

"You know," Marshall mumbles while he rifles through his back pockets for his carton and lighter. "Your brother was right." He flicks the box open and frowns when he realizes there's only two smokes left. He pops one between his lips before offering the last one to Daryl.

"What?" Daryl's staring at him, brows furrowing in confusion. He stops when Marshall rattles the carton to draw his attention. The hunter huffs a little before snagging the last cigarette from the box.

"The first thing he said to me," Marshall swivels the cigarette between his lips while he fights to get it lit, "was 'You ain't a hunter.' all cocky and smug." He takes a few small drags once it finally lights before blowing out the smoke slowly. He turns to Daryl then, and flicks the flame alive, "I got invited to go hunting once. Turned them down because they were just hunting for sport – for fun. I didn't want to be a part of that. I mean... you hunt for food, yeah? To survive. I didn't want to kill for the sake of killing. Still don't, but your brother's a real asshole."

Daryl leans in and soon lets out a billow of smoke, "Yeah." He's quiet for a bit, head drooping a little with his eyes hiding under the shadow of his hair. "But Merle's family – he's blood."

Marshall chances a glance at the other man, watching the way the tendrils of smoke wisp past parted lips. He draws his eyes away before he winds up staring again, "I know. If I had a brother, especially through all this… shit," He waves a hand toward the few walkers wandering through the field, "I wouldn't leave his side if I had a choice." At Daryl's questioning look, he lets out a short laugh, "Only child."

Marshall takes a long drag before rolling his head lazily to look at Daryl, "Everyone I cared about's either dead or left me for dead." A sigh manages to worm its way past his lips before he lets his head fall back to stare up at the clouds. "Or at least I hope they're dead."

Daryl fidgets a bit, "Sucks."

"Yeah." His voice comes out soft, almost a whisper, "My mom was – " His voice catches in his throat, unsure about what he wants to say, or if he's even willing to say it. There's a pressure building up in his chest. He shakes his head roughly, "I'm here now. There's no going back, and…" He pauses for a second to look at Daryl, "I don't plan on leaving."

Daryl's tense. His shoulders are squared and his eyes are locked straight ahead into the treeline. Marshall's about to ask what's up when the hunter speaks up, his voice gruff and neutral. "Yet you're pullin' away?"

"What?" The question catches him off guard, and he sits up properly, cigarette almost falling out of his mouth.

Daryl turns to face him, eyes set hard when they lock with his own, but he doesn't say anything. He just watches, him, expecting something, and… Fuck. Is that really what he thought? That he was trying to get away from everyone? Is that what the others are thinking too? Marshall can't hide the hurt the hurt he feels boiling in his stomach, but maybe he deserves to feel like this right now.

"I…" He stutters out and sees the disappointment starting to form in the hunter's eyes. Not again. "You've got it wrong." He brings up his hand and stares at it for a few seconds before glancing at Daryl. "You saw. That first night I was here, you saw. I just need a place to hide when things get rough."

It's not much of an explanation, he knows, but… it's all he can bring himself to say to try and defend himself. He hopes Daryl'll understand. If there's anyone at the prison he figured would relate, it was Daryl. The man's still a mystery to him, but… the way he moves, the way he acts and carries himself… Yeah. He should understand. And he does.

Daryl's eyes soften a little before giving him a small nod, "Alright."

Marshall lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. Oh, man. A smile manages to make its way onto his lips out of relief. It was one word – two syllables – and yet he feels more at home now than he could've expected. This is a good thing. Daryl's a good person, and he owes him. For saving him. For understanding. Before he realizes, he's reaching out to Daryl and placing a hand on his shoulder, giving him a thankful squeeze. "For what it's worth, I'm trying. Believe me on that at least."

And… he should probably pull his hand back. Shit. He was so out of practice with just trying to be friendly that he probably just made things awkward. Probably. He's a little worried to actually look at Daryl, but when he does, the other man actually looks amused. Daryl even lets out a short huff of a laugh before taking one last drag. "I believe ya."

Marshall rubs at the back of his neck before grinding the butt of his cigarette into the concrete. That was enough embarrassment for one day. "I should probably go find Glenn." He flicks the cigarette off into the distance before

. : | * | : .

His whole body aches.

Marshall lets out a harsh little laugh as he welds the last sheets of metal together before letting himself fall unceremoniously onto his ass. Serves him right. The last few days were nothing but more and more strains on his body that just demanded some rest, but… he likes to himself busy, or at least distracted. He grunts quietly as he pushes himself back onto his feet and dusts his hands off on his jeans. That's good enough, he figures.

He takes a few steps back to appreciate his work. A small barricade of metal scraps he'd welded together teetered on the edge of the bridge, stretching out a few feet. Good enough to provide cover for two people, maybe three. The challenge was trying to find a way to make sure it wouldn't tip over and fall down. Well… not really, but the others didn't need to know that. Making a cantilever isn't that big of an accomplishment. The last time he'd put this much effort into something.

The actual challenge is the little awning he wants to try building... trying being the key word. His hand wanders to rub the back of his neck as he glances up at the sky. It took him a lot longer than he had planned, but uh… even then it's not much. All he's got up is a skeletal frame: the bare minimum necessary to actually make it work, and it stretches just far enough that it should cover most of a bed. It's just really _unstable_ right now. Yeah. That's a good word for it. One kick and it'd probably tip right over.

"I'd like to see someone do better with no fucking tools…" He mumbles to himself as he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck.

Beth had wandered out a few minutes ago to let him know that the others were getting ready to huddle around a table and eat something that Carol had whipped up for them. She'd stuck around a little longer than necessary, watching him while she swiveled on her hells a bit, a curious gleam in her eyes. Kinda made him nervous having someone watch him work, especially when he's so damn rusty he can't even remember what it's like to work wood without a laser cutter. He can already hear his old studio critic lecturing him about relying on technology too much.

With a small sigh, he makes his way back down before digging his hands inside his pockets and heading inside to join the others. The change is sudden enough to feel, and he can't help but smile at it. Used to be that a few months back walking into some place noisy would make him want to bolt faster than a rabbit, but… this is good. This is something he can get used to. Everyone huddled around and actually taking like normal people used to. Sure, it's not really what normal people would've talked about before, but… it's something.

"Marshall!" Maggie calls out, beaming at him while she waves him over to where she, Glenn, and Beth are sitting. "C'mere," She pats one of the empty stools near her, "You're sitting with us today. You owe us a story."

"Do I?" Marshall teases, acting as though he has no clue what she's talking about, but he gives a little laugh before wandering over to the stool and sitting down a little awkwardly. "Alright, what do you want to know?"

Maggie makes a little scolding noise, "That kinda beats the point of a story, doesn't it?"

"I…" Marshall fidgets slightly with his hands. He's not really sure what to say, or… at least he doesn't know what they want to hear. "I don't really know where to start."

He feels himself start to get lost in sorting through his memories for something (anything) appropriate when Rick sidles up to him with a plate in tow and offers it to him with a small nod when he glances up at him. He's about to open his mouth to thank him when Rick speaks up instead, "Where'd you learn to use your bow?"

Huh. The question makes him blink before he smiles softly, "Alright, yeah. I can answer that." He feels the eyes of the others start to turn to him and his ears start to flush a shade of red he can't remember feeling for years. Even Merle and Daryl off in their corner start to watch him. And here he thought he'd gotten over his stage fright. "It's a bit embarrassing."

Beth giggles near him, "Now we have to hear."

Marshall chews a mouthful of food and swallows before starting, "Well, when I was a kid, I'd always loved Robin Hood. Seeing him with a bow's just something that stuck with me, I guess. Anyways, my, uh…" He hesitates for a second, "dad figured it was just a fad I'd get over, but I was such an annoying kid I wouldn't let up with it. I was about eleven when I started bugging him about it. I kept at it for almost a month before he finally caved and signed me up for some classes."

He smiles a little sadly at the memory, but when he spots the questioning looks, he huffs out a little laugh, "He thought it was going to be a waste of money. Told me that if he was going to pay for it, I better stick to it. He was a bit of a hardass sometimes, but he let me have that. The first time I tried to shoot an arrow, I missed so badly he thought I was going to give up on it right then and there, but… I didn't. I stuck it through. It went from a hobby to a pastime as I got older. He, uh…" His voice catches for a second. "He made it to my first tournament before he passed."

"Oh." Maggie's the one to speak up, her lips curving down in a frown, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be," Marshall offers with a genuine smile, "He was a good man. Raised me right." He tugs the collar of his shirt down over his left shoulder just enough that his tattoo shows: V•I•LVII. He waits a few seconds before sliding his collar back into place and scooping another mouthful. "I still remember him." He adds a little quietly, "We celebrate birthdays, not funerals."

His own words ring throughout his head. He could've died months ago. He could've turned and wound up wandering around as a corpse until someone else put him out of his misery. If they even bothered. His appetite left him just as quick as the knot started to form in his stomach. He owed them. He's alive and he survived. He lowers his plate down his lap before his eyes stray off the meet Daryl's. He owes him.

"I haven't been honest with all of you," He announces suddenly, hazel eyes still glued to the hunter's blue pair. He breaks eye contact to look at Rick. "A few months back, I got bit."

"What?" Rick's the only voice he's paying attention to, but he can feel the tension forming in the air. Rick's hand wanders to his holster.

Marshall sighs, "I said I got bit." He rolls up his sleeve to show the cauterized bite scar he's been hiding. "I got bit because I got desperate and I trusted people I shouldn't have, but I survived."

"How's that even possible?" Glenn asks for all of them.

"Bite ain't what kills ya." Daryl barks out.

"Yeah." Marshall rubs at the scar, tracing the faint teeth indentations with his fingers, "Guess I'm proof that cauterizing it can save you, but… I was so scared. What if I'd just delayed it? I could've been a ticking time bomb." He can't stop the bitter laugh from escaping him before shaking his head roughly, "But that doesn't matter. What matters is we can save people knowing this."

He chances a glance up after realizing his eyes had wandered to his boots half expecting to find Rick with his gun pointed right at him. But he isn't. Rick's watching him closely, trying to study him with his cop instinct if he had to guess. Marshall's got nothing to hide though. He only hopes Rick can see that. He just wants to be a part of… this. Can't do that if he can't be honest with them all. When he finally speaks up, the words catch Marshall off guard. "Thank you for telling us."

"I…" Rick's words make him want to laugh, but he's too surprised to even try. He manages to catch the faintest hint of a smile on Daryl's lips in the corner, but it has him grinning. "You're welcome, Rick."

Yeah. He might not need to hide as much as he thought.


	11. Empathy

**Chapter 11: Empathy**

* * *

Marshall stifles a yawn before stretching out lazily on his bunk. For once, he's actually feeling halfway decent. That's a fucking surprise. He can't help but smirk slightly as he shifts slightly, trying to get a little more comfortable on the stiff mattress. It's not much better, but he feels good. You know, asides from the bruises he's still got healing. Just thinking about them makes him regret the decision. He mumbles something under his breath before rubbing his face with his hand and lazily opening his eyes.

He swears his heart skips a beat when he sees the butterfly fluttering over him. No. Shit. _Shit._ He's losing it. That's the only explanation. It's the same exact butterfly from before – the one he followed in a haze and wound up leading him to the prison. It's the same fucking one. There's no mistaking it. His breath starts to pick up – fight or flight instincts kicking in – and he starts crawling backwards fast. Too fast. He slams his head _hard_ against the concrete walls, drawing a loud string of curses from him.

The pain has him reeling for a few seconds, hissing quietly as he rubs soothingly over the back of his head. When he finally finds himself able to open his eyes again… there's nothing there. Absolutely fucking nothing. Oh God. He's losing it. He sits up and cups his face in his hands and lets himself just breathe. In and out, just like that. Breathe. Okay. He's good. His hands drop to his lap and he nearly starts when he spots Michonne at the gate to his cell.

"You good?" She asks, eying him carefully.

Marshall opens his mouth to say something, anything to get her off his case right now, but he just sighs instead and rubs at his eyes. "Yeah." He manages to get out, "I'm good."

"You sure about that?"

Marshall frowns at her slightly. She's not going anywhere. Stubborn. He sighs again, louder this time, and rubs at his arm nervously. Should he even tell her the truth? Shit. He might as well. "Can you keep it between us?" He finds himself asking, seeking out her eyes. Michonne tilts her chin up and watches him for a few seconds before nodding. "I, uh…" Marshall clears his throat, "I saw something."

Michonne tenses at his words. There's a look of recognition on her features, but she says nothing. She just stands there, watching him. It only makes him rub at his arm a little harder.

"I haven't seen it since before I got here." His voice drops to nearly a whisper. His hand slides down the length of his arm until his fingers reach the raised scar, tracing the outline absentmindedly. "I just opened my eyes and… there it was." Silence follows after his words, but he doesn't mind. He doesn't really know what to say, if he's being honest. "Sorry. Probably sounds like I'm crazy."

Michonne gives him a look that has a smile tugging on his lips, "You'd be surprised." She gives him the faintest of nods before pulling away from the bars and leaving.

This still isn't something he's used to. Of course he's not the only one to feel the way he does – to see things like he does. Though he figures most see other people – people they've lost. Not butterflies. He makes a face before easing out of his bunk and changing into a fresh pair of clothes. Well. As fresh as they can be nowadays. He runs his hands down the scratchy pale blue tee. It's a little bit tight, but he can't be picky so long as he's borrowing clothes.

There's a lot that needs to be done. There's a tension in the air. All he has to do is step out of his cell to feel it. Marshall crinkles his nose slightly as he makes his way down to the common room. Something feels off. He's probably just imagining things. Yeah. That's got to be it. He shakes off the feeling and shoots Carol a small smile before wandering over to grab leftovers from breakfast someone'd cooked earlier in the day. It's cold by now, but he doesn't really give a damn. Food's food, warm or not. The two of them talk a bit, but Marshall winds up mostly watching her loading magazines with ammo.

He's yet to tell anyone, but… he doesn't really know how to handle guns. He can probably point it and shoot, but everything beyond that's a mystery to him. "I'll worry about that another day." He winds up murmuring as he forks food into his mouth.

Carol purses her lips slightly, "What was that?"

Marshall blinks and offers her a sheepish smile, "Sorry. Thinking out loud."

Carol looks about ready to say something to him, but the scraping of a blade against glass draws both their attention away. Merle's standing up on the catwalks, forehead pressed against the glass and muttering something they can't quite catch from where they're sitting. Carol stands up and checks on Judith in her crib before shooting a wary look at the older Dixon, "What?"

Merle slowly turns to face them, and there's a look in his eyes that makes the hairs on the back of Marshall's neck stand up. Yeah. Something's wrong, but he can't tell what it is yet. Not sure if he wants to know either. "Nothin'." Merle drawls out before gripping the railing and leaning forward, "We got any whiskey? Hell, I'd even drink vodka." Marshall's about to say he has some in his flask but fuck that. This is Merle.

Carol rolls her eyes before patting Judith softly and making her way back to sit, "Go to hell, Merle." Merle barks out a laugh before slowly sauntering towards the stairs down. Carol spares him the briefest of glances before frowning. "Are you with us?"

"Sure."

"I'm not talking about occupying the same space," Carol makes a face before grabbing an empty magazine and loading a few bullets into it. She pauses and shoots Merle one of the hardest looks Marshall's ever seen on her. Ah. They have history. "Are you with us?" She repeats.

Merle doesn't answer right away, and Marshall winds up glancing up to see if the man was still there. Probably shouldn't have. Merle's staring right at him now, a cold edge to his eyes. He cocks his head to the side before shrugging, "I'm here for my brother."

"Well, he's here for us." Ouch. Even Marshall can tell that's a low blow. His nerves are starting to get the better of him. Maybe he should just leave. This isn't his conversation. "It's not time to do shots. It's time to pick a damn side."

He shouldn't be here. Marshall spares Carol a glance before getting up and wandering back to his cell. Their voices echo like whispers even as he steps into his cell, but he's glad he can't hear it. It's not his business, but he still can't shake the feeling that something's wrong. It's like a feeling in his gut that he can't seem to get rid of. He hums quietly as he straps his quiver on and grabs his bow and pick. He'll just try and keep himself busy. Some time outside should help clear his head. Yeah. That's what he needs, some fresh air.

He sniffs uncomfortably as he makes his way past Carol and Merle before finally stepping out into the courtyard. At least here out in the open with nothing but the sun on his skin, he can ignore the troubling feeling worming around under his skin. Now all he needs to do is keep himself busy. Marshall can't help but smirk when he finds that his nest is still standing, even if it's just the skeletal frame. That was the hard part. All he's got to do now is make it sturdy.

Which… is a bit easier said than done. Shit. Part of him wants to just scrap everything. It actually manages to make him smirk. He can't count the number of times he'd scrapped what he'd been working on for a project just to start fresh with a new idea. Unfortunately, he doesn't have that luxury anymore so he clasps his hands together and starts to rummage for more materials that he can scavenge around the prison to add to the framework.

An hour or two later and he feels a little more satisfied with what he's got. It's not exactly quality, but it's sturdy enough now that he can kick it without worrying about it collapsing and it provides some cover from the weather. It's almost like a treehouse, you know, asides from the fact it's on top of a concrete bridge. Marshall stretches idly, taking a few steps back to pace about the length of the bridge. It's a nice day out, all things considered. Not too many walkers about. It's actually kinda quiet. A little too quiet.

Marshall narrows his eyes at the path leading to the prison. The feeling's back. Something doesn't feel right. Rick and Daryl are down in the courtyard beneath him, and he can tell just by how high strung Rick looks that something's up. Marshall crouches down and picks up his bow and pick before carefully climbing down, making a silent note to himself to either find a ladder or make one. His boots thud loudly against the concrete and he jogs up to the two men, "What's going on?"

Rick's looking from side to side, hand hovering by the rifle he's got slung over his shoulders. "I can't find Merle or Michonne."

Fuck. _Fuck._ He should've been paying more attention, but something tells him there's more to this than Rick's letting on. Okay. Focus. "I'll help you look."

"No," Rick holds a hand up, "I need you here. Keep an eye out."

Marshall starts to protest, "But –"

"Stay here."

Marshall groans loudly once Rick and Daryl are out of earshot. Fuck. He hates feeling useless and they have him standing here doing nothing. This isn't good. If it was just Michonne missing, he'd have figured she'd left but… after that run in King County, he's pretty sure she wants to say. Might not say it out loud, but… yeah. Merle, though. Merle's a wild card. If he's involved, it can't be anything good. Marshall paces about, twirling his pick in his hand. The seconds seem to drag on by waiting for some sort of news. It's getting to his nerves.

Eventually he spots Daryl jogging toward the gates, crossbow in tow. "Hey!" He calls out, moving to catch up with the hunter.

Daryl stops and fidgets slightly, turning to face him, "Yeah?"

"You're heading out?" The hunter nods once before glancing towards the gate. Marshall follows his gaze before making up his mind. "Alright. I'm coming with."

"What?" Daryl stares at him, brows furrowed. "Nah, you should stay here, Marsh. Rick'll need ya."

Marshall blinks slightly. Did he just…? He did. He called him Marsh. Marshall can't help but smile like a dumbass at Daryl. "You can't get rid of me that easily, Daryl." His smile wanes as he turns more serious, "Look, you watched my back and took me in even though you didn't have to. I'm like a stray dog. Now it's my turn to watch out for you. I'm coming with."

Daryl watches him for a few seconds, his expression unreadable, before huffing slightly and turning to head out, "Fine. Let's go, we're wastin' daylight."

Marshall smiles at the hunter's back, relishing in the little victory before jogging after the other man. It doesn't take them long to get the gate open, and just like that they're off, Marshall trailing behind Daryl, eyes constantly scoping out the treeline on their sides. He might not be good at tracking, but if there's anything he picked up on during his time alone it was how to keep a constant eye out. One walker could easily mean ten or worse, a hundred. The very thought of the last herd he'd encountered sends a chill down his spine. Fuck that. Hopefully they won't have to worry about that.

The further away they get from the prison, the more uneasy Marshall feels. Shit. He got comfortable. He shakes the thought away before getting a little closer to Daryl. There's still something he doesn't understand… "What's this about?"

Daryl's shoulders stiffen slightly and he takes a break from tracking to spare him a glance. "Merle's gonna hand her over to the Governor."

"Why the hell would he do that?" Marshall can't hide the disgust he feels.

Daryl bites at his lip before looking away. "Governor said he'd leave us be in exchange for her. Rick wasn't gonna go through with it."

"That's fucked up."

"Yeah."

Rick wasn't going to do it, but does that mean he'd considered it? The thought's a bit… unnerving. Shit. He hasn't met this Governor, but from all he's heard about him, he wouldn't put any faith in anything he promised. Peace? That was probably alive, but… he can't help but wonder what if it was him in Michonne's boots. Man, everything's just so fucked up. This entire world is fucked up. It's stupid but sometimes he just wishes things were like they used to. He misses it.

He's not like Rick or Daryl. Daryl… It's not hard to piece together the puzzle that he is. He's had a hard life. It's in the way he walks, the way he carries himself, and in his features. He was prepared for all of… this. Rick. Rick was a sheriff, a figure with some authority. He had training. He was a leader. He might not've been prepared for this shit, but he learned. Marshall? He's just… himself. He hasn't let this world harden him as much as he should've. It's just another thing he'll worry about once the time comes.

He didn't realize just how badly he'd gotten caught up in his thoughts until he nearly rams into Daryl. He mumbles an apology when Daryl shoots him a look before stepping beside the hunter. So that's why he slowed down. Up ahead, in the middle of what used to be someone's front yard, Michonne's jabbing her sword into a decapitated head. Well, she's fine. But where's Merle?

Daryl seems to share his thought. "Where's my brother?" He calls out to her before closing in. Michonne doesn't answer, but… she looks tired. Weary. "You kill him?"

Michonne shakes her head lightly. "He let me go."

"He let you go?" Marshall raises a brow, shifting uncomfortably. It doesn't make sense. "Why would he do that?"

The look on her face is answer enough. Merle was going to do something stupid and reckless. Something that'd probably get him killed. Daryl picked up on it too and snarls loudly before running past her. Shit. He's never seen Daryl like this. He glances at Michonne and gives her a small smile "Glad you're okay. Don't let anyone else come after us." When she nods at him, he breaks into a sprint to catch up with the hunter and damn if he isn't running like the devil's on his heels. He's almost tempted to call out ahead and tell Daryl to slow down.

It isn't long before they make it to what looks like used to be an old barn. A really old barn, made of sheet metal even. He trails behind Daryl and follows the hunters cue and draws his bow, nocking an arrow. They stop when they spot two walkers crouched over some bodies, feasting on their entrails. Marshall can't help but grimace at the sight. He's just about ready to let the arrow loose when Daryl puts a hand on his wrist and shakes his head at him. Got it. Marshall slowly lets the string go slack.

The further they go, the more bodies they find. There's more walker corpses than there are fresh ones, but it's obvious there was a shootout here not too long ago. There's blood sprayed on the grass. Marshall steps around one of the corpses before turning around, keeping an eye on their six. Luckily, the few walkers still left standing are too busy eating to notice them, but he'd rather not risk overstaying their welcome. The sound of Daryl loosing a bolt has Marshall turning instinctively, bow drawn and ready.

Oh fuck. No.

Marshall freezes in place, staring at what used to be Merle feasting on the body of a boy no older than 18. Oh fuck. He'd turned. Merle had turned, and Daryl, Daryl's just standing there, staring at what used to be his brother. Marshall watches Daryl from behind wide-eyed when he hears the unmistakable whimpers coming from the hunter, and Marshall's heart catches in his throat when he sees Daryl curl up almost like a child. This was his brother – his blood. And now it's clambering up onto its feet and stumbling towards him.

Fuck. _Fuck._ What should he do? His instinct tells him to just loose the arrow, to drop what used to be Merle, but he can't. He can't do that to Daryl.

"No!" Daryl shoves the walker away, but it won't stop so he shoves again. And again. Until he finally grabs his knife and drives it into its shoulder, knocking it onto the ground. Marshall's about to come running to help, but then Daryl takes the knife and plunges it into the walker's face over and over until it's a mass of unrecognizable gore and pulp. He has to look away. When he looks back, Daryl's on the ground a few feet away from the body, crying quietly. Fuck. Marshall doesn't know what to do.

He sheathes his bow and takes a few tentative steps towards Daryl. They can't stay here. Daryl shouldn't have to look at this. He crouches down beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder, ready to give him a squeeze, but Daryl lashes away from the touch as though it burned and staggers onto his feet, turning to face him with nothing but anger and distress on his face. Marshall sees him about to throw a punch and looks away, bracing himself for the hit. If that's what Daryl needs, then fine, he'll be his punching mat.

Except the hit never comes.

Daryl's standing there in front of him, fist raised halfway up. His eyes are cast downwards, his whole body shaking as he cries in near-silence. Marshall can't stand to see him this way, but he doesn't know how to comfort the other man. Fuck. He hasn't had to comfort anyone in so long… So he does the only thing he can think of and walks up to the other man, stretching his arms out to let him know his intent. Daryl takes a step back at first before stopping, and Marshall takes that as permission to wrap his arms around the other man and pull him into a hug.

Marshall doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to – doesn't want to. He just holds Daryl, eyes constantly checking for danger while the other man shakes in his arms. Seeing Daryl so fragile just… fuck. It hurt. He's not sure when, but one of his hands found its way to other man's hair, gently stroking it as a small gesture of comfort. Eventually Daryl seems to calm and Marshall pulls himself away and tries to meet the hunter's eyes.

"Daryl," Marshall calls out to him softly, "We can't stay here."

Daryl's eyes find his, but he's distant – locked away. "I know."

They don't say anything on the way back.

There's no need.


	12. Preemptive

**Chapter 12: Preemptive**

* * *

Marshall doesn't shift from his spot on the floor of the common room when a pair of footsteps close in on him. "Did you mean it?" He barely recognizes the words.

The question knocks him out of focus. Marshall frowns slightly when he realizes Daryl had asked him something in the middle of prepping for the fight that's coming. "Huh?" He looks up from where he's sitting, tinkering with his bow. "What was that?" His mind's wandering. This is it. After what Merle'd done, everything was set into motion. The Governor would be coming soon. They had to be ready.

Daryl hums softly before tugging at the strap of his crossbow, "The other day." The hunter makes a noise of frustration when Marshall shoots him a confused a look, "You said that you should've died. That really how you feel?"

Oh. Is that what they're talking about? That was days ago… Marshall stares at Daryl for a few seconds, wondering if he even wants to entertain this topic right about now. It was a slip of the tongue. He hadn't meant to let Daryl – or anyone – know that was how he'd felt. Yeah, they had a plan to deal with the Governor, but it could easily go to shit and they could all wind up dead. Does it really matter how he felt back then? He sighs softly before setting his bow down on his lap and meeting the hunter's gaze, "That's how I felt, yeah."

"You still feel that way?" Marshall's frown only deepens at that. Where the hell is this coming from? Daryl still looks a little shaken from what had happened. They'd barely gotten a few hours to breathe after all that shit went down. Things like that take time to heal. Time Daryl hasn't gotten.

"Is this really what you want to talk about?" He tries to come off as teasing, but winds up sounding sourer than he'd intended. Daryl just shrugs and turns to leave. The look on his face has Marshall reaching out to stop him. "Hold up." He clears his throat before looking from side to side hesitantly. It's not exactly something he likes to talk about, but it's the least he could do for Daryl, especially if he's asking. "No. I don't. Maybe before I'd gotten here, but… not anymore."

"What changed?" Now that's a loaded question. There's something in the hunter's eyes that makes his heart ache for the other man. Fuck.

"Uh," He's not really sure how to respond. He rubs at the back of his neck nervously before smiling up softly at the hunter, "Well, I found the prison. Found you. And the others. I was just… I don't even know if I'd count how I was before as living. I was just… breathing." He picks up his bow and goes back to adjusting it, "Used to tell myself that If I'd died, then I'd finally run out of borrowed time." He peers up from under his lashes to give Daryl a curious look, "Why do you ask?"

Daryl's chewing on his thumbnail, nodding slightly at his words. "'s nothin'."

Marshall can't help but smile at that. "Alright." Of course that's all he'd get out of Daryl, but he won't pry. Not after what the other man went through. He shakes his head a bit before finishing up with his bow and propping it up against the wall beside him. There isn't much time left, he figures. Now's as good a time as any. He crinkles his nose before making his decision and fishes through the rucksack splayed out beside him on the floor. Pulling out the near-empty flask of whiskey, he swishes it a bit. "For luck," He raises it at Daryl and takes a swig before corking it up and tossing it the hunter's way.

"You headin' out?" Daryl asks before taking a drink. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before offering the flask back to Marshall.

"Yeah. I have to get in position." He shoves the flask back at Daryl, "Keep it." The hunter frowns at him and that only makes Marshall smile more at the other man. "You can give it back once this is over."

It's an indirect promise, one that Daryl seems to pick up on. He might not've had a reason to fight or live before, but now? Well… he'd rather die than turn his back on everyone at the prison. Daryl nods at him before tucking the flask into one of his jacket's pockets and heading out. Daryl's with Rick in the plan to defend the prison. Marshall wraps his scarf around his neck and mouth before standing up to put on his rucksack and shoulder his bow. He'd volunteered to hide out in the trees and provide cover from the flank. So long as he kept out of sight, he'd be fine.

He steps out into the courtyard before running a hand through his hair. There was a tree he'd been eying that looked like it could hold him – that's where he's headed. He draws his pick and flourishes it a few times as he steps closer to the busted gate. He opens it just enough for him to squeeze through before shutting it behind him. There's a handful of walkers roaming about, but they're distracted. The last thing he needs is a bunch of corpses clawing at the tree he's hiding in to give him away. He drops into a low crouch and moves as quietly as he can through the field until he reaches the treeline.

The area's clear. He's got to be careful, one wrong move, and he risks breaking a leg or an arm from the fall. It's times like these when he wishes he had the proper gear because fuck if this isn't risky. Making sure his bow is fastened tight, he starts his climb up the tree, careful to mind his footing and grip before settling in near the top. It's not the most comfortable position and his view's a bit obstructed, but it'll do. Now he just has to wait.

Minutes tick on by while he keeps an eye on road until he hears it: the unmistakable sound of engines. Okay. Now's the time. Breathe. Line up the shot. Push, don't pull. Keep it steady. Marshall nocks an arrow and keeps his eyes glued on the dirt road up to the prison. Four trucks come into view and – Oh, fuck! A loud explosion rings through the air as one of the watchtowers is shredded by a grenade, followed by another, and yet another. Marshall winces at the sound. These guys aren't fucking around. They're also making a lot of noise. Maybe it's on purpose. If they survive this, they're gonna have a lot of dead to deal with.

One of the trucks is sporting a minigun and he tracks the figure manning it but stops himself from loosing an arrow. Not yet. He's gotta wait for the right time. If he takes the shot now, he'll only draw the attention of over a dozen armed men and women. Marshall sniffs slightly before scoping out the scene while the Governor and his men move into the prison. The truck with minigun drove right over the barbed traps they'd laid out. That's one less vehicle for them. The other three seemed to be intact, but it's hardly enough to transport all of them for when they run. Good. The more scattered they are, the better.

"Come on, guys…" He murmurs to himself, feeling anxious from all the waiting. This is his home now. If protecting it means fighting other people, then so be it. He'll do it, even if it sets his nerves on edge. "Give me something to work with."

Minutes pass before the prison's alarm starts to blare. Marshall sits up in attention and adjusts his grip on his bow. That's his cue. People start pouring out of the cellblock and straight to where they want them and it's almost _too_ chaotic. Everyone's running around and he can't manage to line up a fucking shot. He spots Glenn and Maggie poking out of cover to fire. Okay. He can do this, he just has to aim for those firing back. His scope lands on a man trying to reach the minigun and he takes the shot. "Fuck!" He hisses under his breath when he shoots wide. The man's looking in his direction now and Marshall hesitates. "Damn it..." He murmurs softly before aiming for the man's shoulder instead of his head. He doesn't miss this time.

He lets loose a flurry of arrows at the retreating figures, nicking a few, but missing most. He can pick up the arrows once they're clear. He stops once the trucks start revving up and turning tail – he wasn't going to waste arrows shooting at metal. Dust kicks up through the field as the trucks turn hastily to leave. Man, he kinda can't believe their plan even worked. It was a gamble. Marshall can't help but grin before climbing down from his spot and jogging back to the courtyard with his pick in tow. All the noise drew in more than a few walkers, and he has to take a few down before it's clear enough for him to grab his stray arrows digging into the ground.

"We did it." Rick says, wiping his brow with the cuffs of shit shirt. Marshall tucks the arrows back into his quiver before joining the others. "We drove them out."

Everyone looks a little ragged. Michonne rolls her neck before speaking up, "We should go after them." Shit.

Daryl nods before glancing at Rick. "We should finish it." Fuck. That's two for chasing after them.

"It _is_ finished." Maggie cuts in, "Didn't you see them hightail it out of here?"

"They could regroup." Michonne counters. She's right, but…

"We can't take the chance." Glenn speaks up next. "He's not gonna stop." Three.

"Not all of them were fighting back." Marshall can't believe what he's hearing. He makes a face before chiming in, "We can't just gun them all down."

"They're right." Marshall frowns at Carol's words. Four. "We can't keep living like this."

"So we take the fight back to Woodbury." Maggie seems just as against the idea as he is. "We barely made it back last time."

"I don't care." Daryl nearly snarls and shit… Daryl's out for blood, he realizes. Fuck. That's not healthy.

"Yeah." Rick drags a hand down his face before nodding. Whatever he decides they should do, Marshall'll follow, even if it feels wrong. Rick makes a gesture for them to follow. "Let's check on the others."

They file inside their cellblock, but Marshall can't pull his eyes off the hunter's back. He wants to say something to him. He should. He should tell him not to do something stupid – something stupid like Merle'd done – and get himself killed because _fuck_ if something happened to Daryl… Damn it. He's not going to think about it. He's not. He winds up sitting down on the base of the stairs by their rooms, running his hands through his hair and tugging at it on occasion. He doesn't handle tense situations well. Maybe before the turn, but not now. Not one bit, but he has to keep himself together. This is the kind of shit he'd used to avoid.

It doesn't come as a surprise when Rick decides that they're going after the Governor to put an end to this once and for all, but only a small handful of them are going to Woodbury. Part of him is tempted to volunteer to stay behind with the others in case the Governor and his men came back, but… he can't just sit on the sidelines doing nothing. This is his fight too now. Well… It's decided then. It's him, Rick, Daryl, and Michonne heading out for one final assault on Woodbury. There really isn't much to say, so he just quietly settles into the backseat of their SUV while the others get ready.

It's funny, really. The things people do to protect what they consider home… Marshall sighs softly before leaning against the door and looking out at the setting sun. Rick and Michonne step in shortly afterwards and they head out on their potential suicide mission with Daryl leading the way on his motorcycle. None of them say anything through the ride, and his eyes wind up landing on his hands after a while of hearing nothing but the engine and the sound of their breaths. His hands aren't shaking. Huh. He flexes his fingers to test it out, but… nothing. He feels… calm. Determined. His gaze wanders to the angel wings stitched on the back of Daryl's vest. The answer's right there.

He doesn't get to think on it for too long. The SUV comes to a stop when they spot the Governor's trucks in the middle of the road, seemingly abandoned. "The hell happened here?"

Rick hums in agreement before shutting off the engine, "Let's find out."

There are corpses scattered around the truck, some further out than the others. Marshall's got a grim expression when he nocks an arrow and lets it loose into a walker feasting on a body lying on the ground. This is… This is wrong. All of these people – they were the Governor's men. He recognizes some of them – he'd seen them through his scope. Now they're all dead. It's only when they got closer that he realizes why: someone had gunned them down. All of them. They were trying to run away. Holy shit... Marshall lets out a shaky breath before joining the others.

It's unsettling just how many unanswered questions there are here. He winds up standing a little closer to Daryl than he'd meant to – could whoever did this still be around? These bodies are fresh. They could be – Fuck! Marshall jumps at the sound of something hammering and turns to find a woman watching them with wide eyes from inside of one the pickup trucks. Marshall takes a step back and draws his bow while Daryl opens the driver side door. The woman steps out with her hands raised in surrender. Hell, she looks too spooked to even try anything.

Once he hears her story, he can understand why. They'd wanted to leave, to go back to Woodbury and just live in peace. They weren't interested in fighting, but once the Governor heard that, he opened fire on all of them. The only reason she – Karen – survived was because she hid under the body of a friend. Man, that's just… fucked up. These people looked up to the Governor as their leader and he just… It doesn't make any sense. Karen mentions that Andrea had left Woodbury to warn them, but… she'd never made it. That alone sets Rick, Daryl, and Michonne on edge.

Now they had a goal: find Andrea, and if all the fucked up shit he'd heard is true… She's probably back in Woodbury, locked away like a lab rat to be tortured. It's a sickening thought.

By the time they reach the outskirts of the town, it's already night and _fuck_ if it isn't cold. Even though it's dark, he can still get a good view of the wall they'd built to keep walkers and bandits out. He'd whistle right then and there if they weren't trying to sneak up to the gate. Tires to build up a wall? It's smart. Maybe they could try something like that except on a smaller-scale over at the prison… It'd be a good way to reinforce the fence. He's dragged out of his thoughts when bullets start spraying at them and a hand roughly slaps him on the chest and shoves him down into cover by a burnt-out car.

Marshall grunts before realizing it's Daryl that pushed him. "Thanks." He mumbles before gripping the rifle in his hands tight. Rick had handed it to him as if he knew how to handle it, but… Well, maybe he should've told them earlier. It can't be that hard. Aim through the sights, and pull the trigger. He pokes out of cover and joins the others in laying down suppressive fire on the figures keeping watch from atop the wall. So far so good, but they don't have the advantage of height. The bullets come to a halt and everyone stops to reload. He figures they've got a few seconds before they get back to firing each other. Maybe he can make a dash for it and try to flank them…

"Tyreese! It's me! Don't –" Karen suddenly calls out and Marshall reaches out to pull her back down to cover.

"The fuck are you doing?" He nearly hisses at her.

"Karen!" Someone calls out from the wall, "Karen, are you okay?"

Karen worms away from his grip and Marshall curses under his breath as he pulls away from them and brings her hand up above her head. "I'm fine!" Marshall shoots Rick a panicked glance, unsure of what to do.

"Where's the Governor?" Fuck. They were waiting on him to come back.

"He fired on everyone. He killed them all."

"Why are you with them?" Confusion laces the man's voice.

Karen looks at them before glancing back up at the wall, "They saved me."

It's silent for a few seconds and Marshall follows Rick's lead and pushes himself slightly away from the car, ready to move on his say. He doesn't really expect what comes out of his mouth. "We're coming out!" Marshall gives him a skeptical look before hanging his head for a second. Alright. He slings the rifle around his shoulder before slowly standing up, hands raised up. "We're coming out!" Luckily for them, they didn't get gunned down the second they approached. Instead, the gate to the town opened and they met their shooters.

Tyreese and his sister seem like good folk. They seem just as distressed about what the Governor did as he was when he saw the aftermath firsthand. They could be trusted, he figures. Rick agreed with him on that. Together, they go deeper into Woodbury, and Marshall tries not to get distracted by how… orderly the town seemed on the inside. The streets were clean. Everything's so… normal, as though there weren't any dead folk walking around on the outside. It catches him off guard for a second, but Michonne's there to tug him along.

Rick leads them to a shifty-looking warehouse where the Governor used to 'hold' people. Marshall gets a chill just thinking about it. They stop when they reach a closed door… with blood pooling out from under it. It's fresh. They find Andrea inside, alive. Except she's bit, and it's a deep, gruesome thing right between her neck and shoulder. Marshall's hand instinctively goes to his wrist. He knows what's coming. He can't watch this. No. He can't handle that, so he ducks his head and makes his way outside and presses his back against the wall beside the entrance.

If he still had any, he'd be having a smoke right about now. He'll just have to make do with the chilly night air. He didn't know Andrea, but the others did. They deserve their moment with her, especially if they're saying goodbye. He flinches when a lone gunshot rings through the air and folds his arms over his chest. Hopefully she found peace. It's what he would've wanted in her place. Rick and the others come out after a few minutes and he shares with them his plan of bringing any folks from Woodbury over to the Prison if they were willing. It's a good idea. They don't need any more death, but damn if Marshall isn't tired now.

"Hey." Daryl's nudging his shoulder gently. It's only when he glances at his hand that he realizes Daryl's holding out his flask. The hunter doesn't say anything else, but there's relief in his eyes shining through the grief still lingering in them.

Marshall smiles softly before gingerly reaching out to take it back, fingers ghosting over Daryl's. They kept their promise. They're alive. Maybe now things can change. He raises it up as a toast to the other man before uncorking it, "Here's to fresh starts."


	13. Snapshots

**Chapter 13: Snapshots**

* * *

**In Memoriam**

* * *

_\+ 7 Days_

It was an idea that'd come to him a few days after all the folk from Woodbury started settling in. A lot of them were grieving those they'd lost at the hands of the Governor, and… well. Marshall feels for them. He really does. No one should have to lose anyone like that. He's not really sure what it was that possessed him to do something, but... he does. He'd brought the idea up to Rick: a memorial wall – a place to pin up memories and goodbyes to those that are gone. Rick hadn't been too fond of the idea at first, but Marshall's nothing but persistent when he sets his mind on something.

So, Rick eventually gave him a green light after a bit of hounding.

Daryl had volunteered to tag along with him on a quick run to an abandoned office supplies store in a nearby town, but Marshall had him stay behind. It wasn't anything personal. It was just… This was something that he'd wanted to do on his own. It was a smooth trip with no complications, just the occasional walker he had to take out. It was just quiet in the store. He'd grabbed what he needed though – a large cork bulletin board, a small folding table, index cards, post-it notes, push pins, double sided tape, pens, markers… Things that didn't really have a place in the new world.

Getting the supplies wasn't the hard part. It's actually setting up the wall that has him standing there, looking down at all he's gathered. He frowns before rubbing the back of his neck nervously. There's a nagging thought he's been ignoring since he set off. This isn't just for the Woodbury folk. It's also for him. There. He admitted it. He sighs shakily before shrugging off his rucksack and placing it near the base of the wall. He'd picked a spot between the two cellblocks, somewhere that wouldn't be in the way and anyone could go to… if they wanted.

The first thing he does is prop open the table and set it beside the wall. He sets all the supplies on the small plastic table, trying to keep it neat and tidy. He smiles softly when he moves the small candles to the back. Beth had been kind enough to share some with him. It takes a bit of doing, but after a ridiculous amount of double sided tape, he manages to get the bulletin board to stay sturdy on the wall. He takes a step back before admiring the scene. It's nothing elegant or excessive, but… it's a start. It's a place to… To heal.

Marshall sniffs softly before staring at the empty board. Someone has to start it off. Maybe then others would follow, if that's what they want. He crouches down to pick up his rucksack before rummaging it through it and pulling out a beat-up leather wallet. He's not really sure why he'd kept it. Maybe out of hope that when – _if_ – things got back to normal, at least then he'd have something. He hasn't touched it since Boston. There's a lot of memories in it; memories he'd tucked away rather than dealing with them.

He doesn't move.

Minutes pass before he finally builds up the nerve to pry the wallet open. The first thing he sees is his old college ID. Man, he used to keep his hair buzzed short back then. He takes a deep breath before digging his fingers into the pocket holding all the photos he'd tucked away long ago. The first picture brings a sad smile to his lips – it's a photo of him and his friends from one of their road trips laughing in the backseat, enjoying life. He can feel the tears starting to well up in his eyes. The next photo is of his friend posing ridiculously behind him after he'd passed out in his old studio. God, he missed them.

The last photo has him choking back a sob. It's a picture of him and his parents having drinks in their backyard the last time he'd gone back up to Pennsylvania to visit them. He'd teased his mother, saying that he'd pour her flowers some beer to liven them up a bit. She smacked him so hard for that, he can still feel it if he tries hard enough. She loved her garden. And now… Now she's probably dead. She is. He hopes she is. Both of them. They didn't deserve this world. They didn't… He brings a hand up to his eyes, trying to stop the tears from falling, but it doesn't work.

He makes a miserable little noise before gingerly pinning the photo onto the board smack dab in the center. Seeing it on there makes him shudder, but he has to do this. He grabs an index card and scrawls out a message of things he wishes he could've said to them and that he misses them and hopes they're in a better place now. He doesn't care if some tears fell onto the ink, causing it to streak down the paper. It doesn't matter. He just has to get it out. It's a relief when he gets to post it up and take a step back.

It's only when he sniffs and wipes at his eyes that he realizes he's not alone. Marshall freezes in place when he spots Daryl watching him from the distance. The hunter starts like a spooked deer and leaves before Marshall can even get a word out. What the hell, Daryl? He lets himself relax once he's alone again and takes a few seconds to compose himself before turning to leave. There's still a lot of work to be done.

* * *

**Greener Days**

* * *

_\+ 41 Days_

The sun's beating down on him, but Marshall doesn't mind. It's a comfortable feeling, even if he's knee deep in dirt and clearing out a patch for him to work on. Hershel had started teaching Rick about how to farm and they'd even dedicated a good portion of the field for growing crops now that they've got more permanent plans here at the prison. He'd joined in a few times in the lessons, but that's not what he's working on right now. Growing veggies is nice and all, but… sometimes things need a little luxury to start feeling more like a home.

Like a dash of color.

It's probably silly of him, but he wanted to start a small garden, harvest a few flowers here in there, maybe scavenge some seed packets from a store, mostly so that they weren't looking at the same old bland things day in and out, but… partly 'cause he wanted to do something to honor his mother. He hasn't really told anyone that part, but Beth had managed to piece it together herself and took it upon herself to help him out. Despite all of his protesting.

"You know," Marshall wipes his brow with the back of his hand before glancing at the blonde beside him, "I hope you don't feel obligated to help me out."

"I don't." Beth smiles at him before sprinkling some seeds over a spot she'd dug. "I want to. It's like you said – we could use some color. Maybe we'll even get some ladybugs!"

"Maybe." Marshall laughs softly before patting down the spot he'd just planted seeds in. His eyes wander over to Beth, watching her with a curious glint. He can't help himself. He's gotta ask. "So… You and Zach, huh?"

"What?"

Marshall grins at her and gives her a wink, "You two are cute together. If he starts giving you grief, you come find me and I'll kick his ass."

Beth rolls her eyes but smiles at him, "I can handle myself."

"Oh, I know you can," Sometimes it's easy for him to forget, but it's true. Beth is one of the strongest people at the prison. "But that doesn't mean I can't rough him up for you, if you want."

"Thanks, Marshall."

"No problem." Marshall's just about to start digging another hole when he catches Beth looking at him funny. He purses his lips at her, "What?"

"No one's caught your eye?" She's got a mischievous glint in her eye. Oh shit.

Marshall clears his throat nervously before getting back to work. "Can't, uh, really say so." It's a lie, and Beth can tell by the way she's beaming at him.

"You're such a liar, Marsh!"

* * *

**Stargazing**

* * *

_\+ 73 Days_

This is… nice.

Marshall can't help but hum contentedly as he takes a drag from his cigarette and lets the smoke billow out of his lips before disappearing into the night sky. Daryl had managed to scrounge up a carton the other day and now here he was, lying down beside him on top of the bridge, the two of them pressed shoulder to shoulder while they just… relax there, happy to just share a smoke in silence. It's been nearly two months, but he's still getting used to all the people they have around the prison now. They aren't just survivors anymore. They're a community.

And, man… If being able to look up at the stars without having to worry about whether or not his life is at stake? It's almost blissful. You couldn't get a sight like this in the old world. It's even better with someone else. The fact he managed to get Daryl to join him is just another thing to bring a smile to his lips. They don't really talk much – it's not really necessary. They just share moments like this from time to time. Marshall'd be lying if he said he wasn't getting comfortable with having the other man around so often. He likes it – he really does.

Daryl props himself up on one elbow after a while and studies Marshall for a second, "The hell'd ya get that ratty thing from anyways?"

"What?" Marshall rolls his head lazily to squint at Daryl, wondering what he's talking about.

Daryl pouts before sucking in a breath and tugging at Marshall's cowl with his spare hand. "This."

Marshall makes a noise of mock offense before laughing slightly, "It's a cowl, and it's not ratty. Now this," Marshall pats the beat-up thin futon he'd hauled up into his little nest a few weeks back, "This shit's ratty."

The hunter huffs before leaning back down and fidgeting a bit, "Fuck whatever it's called. 's scratchy."

"Yeah?" His voice comes out teasing and he nudges the other man softly with his arm, "Maybe if you actually wore sleeves it wouldn't be itchy." The other man grumbles slightly and shoots him a look before taking a drag. "I asked Marge if she could make it for me."

"The old hag?"

"Daryl!" Marshall nudges him a little rougher this time and Daryl just smirks at him, the fucker. Joke as he may… Marshall knows Daryl's getting attached to the newcomers. So is he. He crinkles his nose before continuing, "Yeah. Found out she's good at knitting and I figured it wouldn't hurt to ask. Got her what she needed. And you," He points a finger at the hunter before he can say anything, "can't say shit."

"I ain't gonna." Daryl's quiet for a few seconds before looking at him from the corner of his eyes, "You done with the jacket then?"

That's right… He hasn't really touched that thing in a while. He hasn't really felt the need to… Used to be that it helped him feel safe as if it were like a second skin he could put on to protect himself, but now? Now it's just a jacket, and he doesn't really need it anymore. Not like that. It's progress, and it makes him turn and shoot the hunter a small smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I am."

Daryl nods quietly and Marshall takes the moment to point out some of the constellations he recognizes. He keeps at it for a while before he realizes they should probably get back to the others. There's already enough rumors floating around.

* * *

**Target Practice**

* * *

_\+ 96 Days_

"Aw, c'mon, Marshall!"

Marshall can't help but roll his eyes at Maggie. It had started off as a joke, but now she's got the kids joining in. "Geez, you really are persistent, aren't you?"

Maggie flashes him a wicked grin, "You don't know the half of it."

Unbelievable. Marshall runs a hand through his hair as he looks at the makeshift training dummies someone had put together out in a corner of the field. They even had smiley faces scribbled onto what he figures is meant to be the heads. He shoots Maggie an incredulous look before breaking out into a laugh. This was _beyond_ asking who was the better shot between him and Daryl. He'd tried to explain that it's not exactly easy to compare a bow with a crossbow, but apparently that hadn't been enough.

"Fine. But," He brings a hand up to make his point, "Only if you can convince Daryl."

That gave them something to do, and Marshall finds himself plopping down onto the grass and running his hands through it. Things have been pretty calm around the prison. There's still a lot that needs to be done, but they've got people, time, and supplies. They've already fixed up the fence and built up a small wall of tires and scrap they could savage to fortify it. It wasn't tall enough to block out the sight of the walkers pressing up against it, but… it's easier to forget about them now.

He leans back and crosses his arms to rest his head on top of, content to just watch the clouds pass on by overhead. It's a luxury he has now. He's just about to start dozing off when a shadow looms over him. He squints backwards to spot Daryl looking at him with a quirk on his lips.

Marshall flips him the bird before grinning and sitting up. "Wipe that smirk off your face, Dixon." He spots Maggie approaching with his bow and quiver… and a small handful of people.

"Hope you don't mind." Maggie smiles unapologetically at him before handing over his equipment. She really is a minx.

Marshall laughs while he straps on his quiver and shoots Daryl an amused look, "Looks like we're putting on a show. Hope you can keep up."

"Talkin' big for someone who's about to get his ass beat." Daryl huffs before propping up his crossbow, but there's a playful glint in his eyes.

Marshall meets it with a challenge, "We'll see."

And shit, if the next few minutes isn't one hell of a dick measuring contest with the two of them pulling out their best shots, but Marshall… Well, Marshall's got a few tricks up his sleeves he'd picked up from other archers he'd met during tournaments, and he puts them to good use now. He's practically whooping when he decides to fuck around and aim for Daryl's target instead and winds up knocking Daryl's arrow away before it manages to land. That earns him a hit on his shoulder, but it was definitely worth it.

Marshall's just barely keeping himself from sticking his tongue out at Daryl when that little stunt won him the contest, even if they're pretty on par. "Showmanship, Daryl."

"Yeah, yeah," Daryl's waving him off. He smirks at Marshall after collecting his arrows, "You still can't aim a gun for shit."

"Hey! I'm working on it!"

* * *

**Red-faced**

* * *

_\+ 119 Days_

Oh fuck.

Oh fuuuck. He drank way too much. Way too fucking much. Too much. Why'd he… Oh God. He really fucked up here. He fucked up big, but he feels good, and if he can barely keep himself standing, then that's alright with him 'cause… 'cause things are good right now. Things are _great_. They have a working _shower_! That's great. That's beyond great. He couldn't ask for anything better than what he's got right now, and that… that's why he's drinking. To celebrate. Well. As much as he is… now… 'cause he deserves it and… where the fuck is he?

Marshall scratches at the scruff of his chin and leans against the wall for balance. He was… he was heading somewhere. Right. But… Wh… Why's he doing this again? Oh fuck. This isn't fun. Why didn't he just stay put in his room? He had curtains and… And he could've just stayed there drinking in peace happily but. Oh. Oh! Daryl hadn't been at his perch, and… he wanted to drink with the other man. After having drunk already. He still wanted to do that. Even if he almost fell face-first down the stairs. Rick had been there, bless him. He gave him a hug for helping him out.

Maybe if he… goes a little slower he can make it back to his cell. Fuck wherever Daryl is, he just wants to lie down and feel warm and good. That sounds so fucking… good. Yeah. It sounds good. So… he's going to do that. Just that. He just has to… move his feet. Yeah. Just like that. But the wall is so sturdy… Maybe he should just… stay here. That also sounds like a good idea. He groans loudly before dragging himself forward and oh fuck. Yeahhh… He's going to stay here for a bit.

"The hell are you doin', Marsh?"

Marshall rolls his head lazily and grins sheepishly at… Daryl. That's Daryl, right? "Oh, heeey. I was just… I was just looking for you, actually." His grin quickly turns into a pout, "Where were you? I… I looked everywhere."'

Daryl's giving him a funny look, and if he could walk over to him, he would… he would smack it off. Probably. Not really. Maybe. "If you call lookin' everywhere standin' in a hall makin' noise, sure."

Marshall crinkles his nose and pouts again, "I did. I looked. Well. I wanted to. I got…" He makes a wavy gesture with his spare hand for a few seconds, "Yeah."

"You're fuckin' smashed, aren't ya?" Daryl laughs – he actually fucking laughs – and the sounds enough to have Marshall beaming.

"You got it. I was going to… I was going to ask you if you wanted to join me, but I, uh," Marshall shrugs his shoulders weakly, "Guess I pregamed too hard."

"No shit. C'mon, you can barely stand."

"Hey, Daryl." Marshall clings to the hunter's vest and presses his forehead against Daryl's shoulder. "Daaaryl. You… You're a good man. You know that, right? I'm lucky to have met you."

Daryl tenses under him but huffs anyways, "You're drunk."

"Doesn't matter." Marshall says into the hunter's shoulder, pressing in a little closer, "Still like you, drunk or not." He mumbles a few more things under his breath before snapping up suddenly and pushing himself away from Daryl. Oh fuck. He just said that. He can feel his face getting even more red as he stares at his feet. He can't bring himself to look at the other man. "Help me back, yeah?"

"Alright." Comes the soft response.

* * *

**On The Trail**

* * *

_\+ 152 Days_

Someone's been through here. Marshall drops down to one knee to examine the tracks a little closer. Daryl's taught him a few things here and there when it comes to tracking, but he's nowhere near as good as the hunter. There's an uneasy feeling welling up in his stomach when he stands back up. These footprints are fresh, and they aren't from a walker. There are other people around. Shit. Maybe he should've brought someone along with him on this scouting run. He tugs at his cowl and pulls it up to cover his mouth before drawing his bow.

This isn't that far from the prison… If there's another group nearby and they're hostile... Shit. He doesn't want another war.

Marshall nocks an arrow before slowly following the tracks, careful to keep an eye on all his corners. He won't let himself be caught off guard. It's almost a half hour later when he spots a clearing ahead after some trees… and some vehicles. Okay. So there is another group of people nearby, but are they dangerous? His instinct is telling him to just turn around now and warn Rick that they should steer clear of this area for now, but… he wants to see if he can figure anything else out, so he presses in a little closer, sticking close to the trees.

He just has to get a little bit closer…

There's a string of clothes hanging between two RVs – that means these people have been here for a while. Not the most secure of places… Especially since he hasn't seen any kind of defenses. A few people are milling about – men, women, and… children. Huh. The sight alone's enough to settle his nerves. Groups with kids usually means there's decent folk. Usually. Crawford taught him that much, but these people are armed. He's not gonna try and make contact. Better to just steer clear for now. He's just about to turn tail when he makes eye contact with someone. Oh fuck.

Marshall starts taking a few steps backwards before breaking into a sprint just as voices start booming from the camp. Fuck, fuck, fuck… He winds up returning a lot later than he'd intended, if only to make sure he wasn't followed.

They could be trouble.

* * *

_A/N__: _On a completely unrelated note, I know a lot of people symbolize Daryl with a wolf. I figure if there's any animal I would apply to Marshall... It would have to be a falcon. Feel free to imagine a falcon perched on a wolf's head - that's what I do! It sums up their relationship pretty well, aha.


	14. Linger

**Chapter 14: Linger**

* * *

Five months.

Almost six months, actually. Jesus. Marshall can hardly believe it's been that long even as he brings a hand to wipe the sweat off of his brows. They've come a long way since then, and he's more than a little proud to say that he managed to help out with some of it. A grin manages onto his lips as he grazes a hand over the short wall of tires keeping the fence up and sturdy. It's a good thing too, considering all the walkers they've got piling up against the fence. It was the same last month. Where they come from, he has no idea. He lifts his scarf up a bit and makes sure he's got his mouth covered before taking the sawed off cane in his hands and jabbing it through the fence into the walker's skulls.

Technically, it's not his shift yet. People are still getting up and having breakfast. He can smell the grill and the deer they're cooking all the way over here. Might be why the biters are riled up so early in the morning. Looks like even they can't resist the smell of a good barbeque. Marshall smirks under the cloth before pulling back and lining up another jab. He freezes just as he's about to strike. His brows furrow as he stares at the corpse snapping its rotting mouth at him. Its eyes are soaked red and there's dried up blood trailing down from them like tears. It's… unnerving. He's seen a lot of walkers but none like that.

"Probably nothing." He murmurs to himself before piercing the walker's skull. He takes a step back and drops to a crouch, wiping the cane on the grass to get some of the gunk off before resting it against the stack of tires.

Marshall stretches lightly as he gets up and starts to make the short walk over to the spot they'd dubbed the dining area just outside the entrance to the cellblocks. A few of the folks seated at the table call out to him in greeting and he nods at them. Carol's on grill duty today and he offers her a lopsided grin as he tugs down his scarf and leans his elbows against the makeshift counter, tilting his head slightly at her. "Morning, Carol."

"You're looking good." She flashes him a small smile before flipping the slab of meat.

"I'm feeling good." He admits before loosening the scarf around his neck and shoving it into one of his pockets. It's too fucking hot out to keep it on. It's part of the reason he'd opted for barely buttoning up his faded blue-brown plaid shirt. He sniffs at the sizzling meat before practically grinning from ear to ear, "Almost done? I'm starving."

Man, if it felt good to be able to say that without it coming off as a sick joke. They had a surplus of food and supplies, if anything. Things were going really fucking good. His hackles have been down for so long – he can't help but smile at the realization. This is home. His fingers wander over to the potted plant propped on the corner of the counter, gently tracing the petals. He'd stumbled onto it by chance – found it growing in the shade of a busted greenhouse and damn if it was too pretty to just leave out there. He'd gotten a few odd looks when he came back from a run with it in tow, but it wasn't anything he couldn't laugh off.

"Morning, Daryl."

Marshall cocked his head to the side at the mention of the hunter. He rolls his eyes slightly at the sound, but he's still got a smile on his lips as he watches the other man approaching, looking a little confused by all the attention. He'd gotten a bit of a fanbase over the last few months. It's something he still likes to tease him about, but um. Well, he'd given it a rest lately. Things between them had been a bit… awkward for nearly the last two months. Maybe that's not the right word for it. He can't remember what it was that he'd done when he'd gone overboard with this drinking but ever since then he'd catch Daryl watching him when he didn't think he was paying attention with this look in his eyes. He'd already figured out long ago to let Daryl handle things his own way. Daryl'll speak his mind eventually.

"Hey," Marshall smiles at the hunter before pushing himself away from the counter.

"'sup." Daryl nods at him before leaning over to peer down at the cooked meat. "Smells good."

"Just so you know," Carol starts up, her lips quirking up slightly as she watches Daryl turn to look back at the folks that had called out to him, "I liked you first."

"Stop." Daryl growls quietly before snatching up a piece of meat and chewing on it for a few seconds, eyes wandering over to Marshall before finally settling back on Carol. "You know, Rick and Marsh brought in a lot of them too." Marshall lets out a snort at that. He'd brought in maybe two people, at most. Daryl? Daryl kept picking people up. Grouchy as he might be on the outside, the man has a bleeding heart sometimes.

"Not recently." Carol gives Daryl a look that just reads 'Uh huh'. "Give the stranger sanctuary, keeping people fed, you're gonna have to learn to live with the love." She tilts her head up knowingly and Marshall hums in agreement before following Daryl's lead and stealing a small bit of meat.

Daryl's eyes land on Marshall again while he's busy plucking at different bits and plopping them down into a plate for himself. Marshall looks up just in time for Daryl to look back at Carol, huffing slightly. "Right."

"I need you to see something." Carol smiles softly at Daryl before turning to Marshall, "Marshall, you want to take over?"

"Sure thing." Marshall gives her a mock salute before taking the prongs she held out for him. He snaps it twice with a metallic clack before he spots Patrick cleaning off some dishes. "Patrick!" He calls out before taking another bite. "Come lend me a hand."

Patrick perks up before nodding a bit too quickly. The kid was overly eager sometimes, but he was a good guy. "Yes, sir." Marshall flips over some of the meat before frowning slightly, wishing he had some black pepper to sprinkle onto it. He looks over just in time to watch Patrick approaching with wide eyes, staring at the hunter. Right. Marshall smirks slightly as he remembered how Patrick looked up to Daryl. Lots of people did.

"Uh, Mr. Dixon," Patrick says from behind Marshall, "I just wanted to thank you for bringing that deer back yesterday. It was a real treat, sir. I'd be honored to shake your hand."

Marshall can't resist the urge then. He turns to face the conversation behind him, grinning widely as he watched Daryl's face. He looked confused but a quick glance to Carol has him sucking his fingers clean in an exaggerated way that has Marshall rolling his eyes slightly. Probably trying to gross out the kid a bit, but Patrick didn't even so much as flinch when Daryl shakes his hand. If anything, he only looks more awestruck.

"Wasn't just me, y'know." Daryl adds when Marshall turns back to the grill. "Should be shaking Marsh's hand too."

"Please." Marshall laughs before flipping over a chunk of meat and glancing over his shoulder, "You did all the work. I can't track for shit yet. Now, go on." He makes a shooing gesture at him with the prongs while smirking. Daryl shakes his head before trailing after Carol. Marshall watches them leave before turning to the still beaming Patrick, "You know," He wraps an arm around the boy's shoulders and gives him a shake, "You're going to wind up giving him an ego, Patrick."

"Sorry, sir, it's just –"

"I know, I know." Marshall draws his arm back and ruffles Patrick's hair a bit before turning his attention back to the grill, "He's a badass." Patrick looks a little abashed and Marshall just laughs, "Don't worry. I won't judge your hero worship. Won't say a word even." He mimes zipping up his lips before having one final laugh.

Daryl had that about him. People looked up to him for what he can do. Marshall? Well... People thought his archery was cool, but that was about it. He'd kind of become the big brother to a lot of the kids around the prison. Most of them still had their parents around, but they just seemed to flock to him sometimes. He doesn't mind. They're good kids all around. The only one that worried him a bit was Lizzie. After a few minutes of tending the grill while eating, he nudges Patrick and hands him the prongs before excusing himself. He's got a run to get ready for.

He nods at a few of the folk greeting him on his way back to his room. It's not even a cell anymore, not really. He'd gone ahead and painted it light yellow after a few weeks of getting tired of the mute greys. He'd even gone the extra mile and got a door to replace the gate of his cell. Just having a door was enough to make it feel more… cozy, he figures. Fresh paint, curtains, a door, and some memorabilia. That's all he needed. His eyes land on the drawing Molly had given him pinned up on the wall. He smiles softly at it. There's not much else on his walls - just a few small metal sculptures he'd found and…

Marshall chuckles softly when his eyes land on the one polaroid he's got taped to the wall. He'd snagged the old camera Glenn had found and tried to get a picture of Daryl while they were having a smoke break one afternoon. Daryl's response had been to try and swat the camera away while cussing at him. He wound up with a blurry photo of Daryl reaching for the camera with a grumpy look on his face. It was too good to throw away, so he'd kept it. Memories don't have to be a bad thing. Marshall sighs contentedly before grabbing his usual gear and straps them on, satisfied that everything's as it should be.

He joins the others outside shortly and lugs his rucksack and bow into the trunk of the SUV, arching his brow when he notices Bob's coming with. He was the last person that had joined them at the prison. Daryl was the one to pick him up – that was enough for Marshall to not doubt the man. Apparently the man had been alone out there just like Marshall had been. If he wants to try and pull his weight, Marshall would vouch for him, but it isn't necessary so he just smiles faintly before slamming the trunk shut.

"I'm driving." Zach announces with a smug look on his face. Marshall just laughs and places his hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"No, you're not." He pats his shoulder once before snagging the keys from his hand, dangling it overhead as he sidles up to the driver's seat. He glances over his shoulder at the flabbergasted Zach before laughing and opening the door, "Consider this me abusing my spot on the Council if you want. Now, come on." He smacks the roof of the car two times before grinning, "You riding shotgun or what?" Zach grumbles something fierce before finally moving and settling into the passenger seat just as Marshall buckled up.

The car engine rumbles to life and Marshall leans back into his seat. They're the tail of the caravan. He rolls his head against the headrest and peers at Zach. "You talk to Beth?"

Zach takes a deep breath before slouching, "Yeah. She didn't say goodbye."

Marshall smiles at that and adjusts the rearview mirror, "Smart girl."

"What?" Zach turns to him then and glares at him.

Marshall shrugs, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Do you really want her to say goodbye?" He shoots the younger man a meaningful look before turning his gaze back ahead, "Saying goodbye means she might not see you again. Better not to think like that, yeah?"

Zach's quiet for a few seconds. He nods stiffly before kicking his feet up onto the dashboard. "I guess."

"Good."

He shifts the car into drive once he hears Daryl's motorcycle revving up and eases the SUV forward as they snail towards the gate. The horse darting through the gate has him leaning forward with a grin. Michonne. He liked Michonne – he felt some camaraderie with her. She'd been through Hell and come back burnt but alive. It's a shame she kept running off trying to hunt down the Governor, even after all these months. He sets the car to park and rolls down his window, poking his head out.

"Good to see you're in one piece!" He waves at her, earning a small smile from her. She'd lost some of the edge she used to have. "You coming with?"

Michonne spares a glance at Rick before nodding her head, "I'll go." Carl protests a bit at that, but she managed to calm him down. She has that way with him. Rick too. Out of everyone, they were the two she'd gotten closest too. Even with the safety of the prison, she still… kept herself at a distance. As if she was expecting everything to go shit, and maybe it would, but living like that? That's no way to live. He knows that now. It just eats at you until you feel hollow inside. He bites back the sigh he feels building up in his throat.

"You want to ride shotgun?" Marshall offers as Michonne closes in, flashing her a smile. "I can kick Zach to the backseat."

That earned him a punch to the thigh from Zach. "Don't be an asshole, dude!" Marshall just laughs before nodding at Michonne and settling back inside the car, rolling the window up hallway. He likes the feel of the wind on his face, especially on days like these where it' hot as fucking balls. He keeps his eyes glued to the rearview mirror as Michonne settles down in the backseat and flashes her a smile before setting the car to drive and following after the others.

It's a bit of a drive until they make it to the Big Spot. They pull over a bit a ways before everyone piled out and walked the rest of the way over. Marshall's almost tempted to scratch at his neck. It's surprisingly… empty. The sight of military tents usually meant walkers. It's always the same story. Marshall crinkles his nose and keeps his bow steady as they approach the fence. "I'm surprised there's nothing here."

"Used to be a bunch of walkers behind this chain-link keepin' people out like a bunch of guard dogs." Daryl chimes in, but that doesn't really answer Marshall's question.

Bob seems about as confused as he is. "So they all just left?"

"Give a listen." Sasha lifts her chin up slightly and… ah. There's music playing off in the distance.

"You drew them out." Michonne says, resting her weight on one leg.

Marshall grins at Sasha and Glenn, "Smart. The closest thing I've done like that is use a kitchen timer to get some walkers off my tail. I don't miss those days, I'll tell you that much."

"Alright," Daryl speaks up, gesturing for the others to follow through the hole in the fence, "Let's make a sweep. Make sure it's safe." Marshall follows close behind, his eyes glued to the wings on the back Daryl's vest. "Grab what you can. We'll come back tomorrow with more people."

"Sounds good." Marshall murmurs before grabbing an arrow from his quiver and nocking it in place. He steps closer into the encampment, feeling slightly uneasy even though he knows the area should be clear. That close call a few days back has him a bit on edge. He shakes the thought out of his head before spotting a tent with a red cross stamped above the entrance. He hums quietly as he edges towards the flap, kicking at it a few times just in case. Alright. It should be clear.

The first thing that hits him is the smell, and he instinctively tugs up the thin scarf to cover his nose and mouth. There's a corpse strapped to a stretcher in the corner, gunshot wound to the temple. Marshall grimaces slightly and shoulders his bow, choosing instead to focus on looking through the medicine cabinet in the tent. There isn't much left… It's almost empty. There's a few bottles of painkillers and some small vials of… well, he's not really sure what it is, but it's probably something Hershel or Dr. S could use. He rolls one of the vials through his hands, trying to find the name of the medicine on the label.

"Find somethin'?"

Marshall jumps at the sudden voice and drops the glass vial. It shatters by his foot and he cusses under his breath before squaring his shoulders and turning to find Daryl holding the flap of the tent open. He scared the shit out of him. He's not usually this jumpy. Hasn't been this jumpy in a long time. Daryl seems to pick up on that and frowns. Marshall rubs at the back of his neck before looking through the rest of the cabinet, "Not much. Some painkillers, a bit of medicine, some bandages, and a bit of rubbing alcohol. Looks like they were running out of supplies by the time this camp went to shit."

"Mm." Daryl hums quietly. Marshall's pretty sure he's left when the flap of the tent shuts, but the hunter's right there behind him, giving him a look he can't really get a read of. He stares at Daryl's blue eyes, growing more confused as he just stands there. Eventually, the other man reaches into one of his jacket's pockets and pulls something out. "Here." Daryl mumbles softly before grabbing Marshall's hand and placing a holstered knife into it.

Marshall stares at the pale cream handle of the blade poking out of the sheath before looking up at Daryl, ready to ask why he's giving this to him. His question stops at his lips when he meets Daryl's eyes and sees the pain lingering in there. Ah fuck. That's what this is about… The deer they'd caught hadn't gone without its hitches. They'd run into a few walkers lugging it back to camp. It shouldn't have been a problem, but Marshall's pick had gotten stuck in one of their skulls and another managed to knock him off his feet before he could yank it loose. Daryl had yelled himself hoarse after that, going on about how stupid he was for not carrying a knife like any sensible human being. If Daryl hadn't been there… Well.

Daryl folds Marshall's fingers over the holster before taking a step back, "Don't ever be that fuckin' stupid again. You hear me?"

Marshall swallows nervously, knuckles going white from how hard he's clutching the sheath. "Yeah. I hear you."

* * *

_A/N__:_ Musing as an author here so feel free to skip this, but you know, I've had a lot of plot points jotted down for a good while now, but… Marshall's just going "Nah, man. That isn't me anymore" while I try to write them out, and that's leaving me a little stranded on what to do in later chapters. I suppose this is how you know a character's grown since you first thought them up, yeah? It used to be that hope was a scary thing for him. He refused to let himself hope because it would only ruin him. Now, he's embraced it, and he's in a chrysalis – changing, evolving. I'm just not sure how he's going to come out of it… especially considering what happens this season.


	15. Lukewarm

**Chapter 15: Lukewarm**

* * *

"Okay. I think I got it." Zach's propped against one of the columns by the entrance of the Big Spot, toting his shotgun about with a shit eating grin on his face.

Marshall can't help but mirror the expression as he approaches the trio, even if it's hidden under his scarf. He'd shoved what he'd found into his rucksack and looked through a few other tents, but there really wasn't much left in the camp. He meets Daryl's eyes from where the hunter's perched on the small ledge of the store's windows and follows them down to his hip where he'd snapped the knife's sheath onto his belt. Daryl nods his head and chews on his lower lip, prompting Marshall to roll his eyes with a smile before glancing at Zach, wondering what kind of shit he's about to spew this time.

Looks like Michonne's thinking about the same thing too 'cause she steps closer. "Got what?"

"I've been trying to guess what Daryl did before the turn." Zach pushes away from the column and moves to sit beside the hunter who only huffs at him.

"Been tryin' to guess for, like, six weeks."

"Yeah," Zach leans his head back against the glass, "I'm pacing myself." He grins before glancing between the three of them and raising a finger. "One shot a day."

Marshall lets out a slow whistle, moving to rest his hands on his hips, "That determined, huh?" He shakes his head softly. Even if he were to guess right, he doubts Daryl'll flat out admit to it. There's still a lot about him that's still a mystery, but he doesn't pry for the same reason no one pries at him about his past. Looks like Daryl's at least willing to humor him though. That's good, he figures.

"Alright," Daryl sits back and glances at Zach, "Shoot. "

"Well, the way you are at the prison, you being on the council, you're able to track, you're helping people, but you're still being kind of…" Zach makes a gesture with his hand. "Surly." Marshall laughs at that and Michonne makes a face that looks like she's pretty close to laughing herself. Daryl doesn't say anything while they wait for the big reveal. "Big swing here." Zach takes a dramatic pause before grinning smugly, "Homicide cop."

Michonne's the one to laugh this time. Daryl's lip quirks up slightly, looking a bit amused. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." Michonne says, smiling, "It makes perfect sense."

"Actually," Daryl starts, and Marshall can't help but chuckle a bit. "The man's right." He glances at Zach and nods. "Undercover."

Zach though… Zach's looking from side to side, not sure if he's being yanked around or not. "Come on, really?" He asks, and that smugness is back as if he'd gotten it right.

"Yep." Daryl's got the most subtle of glints in his eyes. The kind he gets when he's joking around, and Marshall just shakes his head as he keeps going. "I don't like to talk about it 'cause it was a lot of heavy shit, you know?"

"Dude." Zach looks like he's starting to catch on. "Come on… really?" Daryl just clears his throat in response and Zach drops his hands to his lap in surrender. "Okay. I'll just keep guessing, I guess."

"Yeah, you keep doin' that." Daryl huffs, but there's no roughness to it. This Daryl? The Daryl that jokes around with people? That's the one Marshall likes the best. He doesn't see it much, and he can't hide the sheer look of admiration in his eyes as he watches the hunter. Daryl seems to feel them on him and looks up, but glances away just as quickly and Marshall reels himself in. Almost as if on cue, a walker slams into the glass pane behind them and snarls at them.

"We're gonna do this, detective?" Michonne asks with a smirk before taking a step back and resting her hand on the hilt of her sword.

"Let's do it." Daryl clambers onto his feet and waves the rest of their group over.

Together, they form a small half-circle by the entrance while Daryl pries the door open. The few walkers inside clamber out neatly in a line and they take turns downing them, quick and easy. There was maybe seven or eight walkers. Nothing they couldn't handle. Now they just had to haul the corpses out of the way so they could get in and out easily, but even after all this time… Ugh. Marshall still hates it. He whines quietly as he hooks his arms under one of the corpse's armpits and drags it to the side before dropping it like a rag. Nasty shit. Tyreese is the last one out.

"All right," Sasha speaks up before addressing them all. "We go in, stay in formation for the sweep. After that, you all know what you're supposed to look for. Any questions?"

Marshall hums softly before nocking an arrow and keeping his bow at the ready. He follows behind Michonne and smirks at Tyreese asking Sasha if there was ever a time she wasn't giving him orders. Siblings. He sniffs softly as they start their sweep of the store, checking for any threats. After a few minutes, they deem it safe and they fan out to look for supplies. Marshall grabs a cart for himself and starts riding down the aisles like a kid in a wonderland, and well… this is as close as they'd get nowadays. He laughs softly as he looks around at the nearly-fully stocked shelves. This place must've fallen pretty early on. Talk about a score. All the walkers outside must've kept looters at bay.

Not that he's complaining.

Jesus. He knows he has a list, but with so much just lying around he starts grabbing a bit of everything and dropping it into the cart. Spices, seasoning, some tomato sauces that haven't gone bad, canned food, honey, peanut butter, boxes of cereal. There's a lot to grab. Too much. He brings to the cart to a stop when he spots a small, miserable glass display case by the clothing aisles hidden away in the corner of the store. His curiosity gets the better of him and he steps away from cart, trudging towards the case before leaning over and wiping off the dust coating the top. It's just the jewelry case.

He's about to pull away when something catches his eye. He hums quietly as he stares at the simple silver chain necklace with a small anchor hanging off of it. It's nothing special – there's nothing really elaborate about it, but that's part of its charm. He eyes it for a few seconds before trying to slide the case open, but it's locked. Of course it is... is it really worth it? His fingers drum on the glass before he makes up his mind and draws his pick, hoping to bust the lock by fiddling with it a bit. When that doesn't work, he clicks his tongue in frustration right before taking the blunt end of his pick and driving it straight into the glass, shattering it.

"Everything all right back there?" Sasha. Shit… That was louder than he'd intended.

"Yeah," He calls out before reaching into the case and grabbing the chain, dusting off the small shards of glass with the sleeve of his shirt. "Just knocked something over. Sorry!" The smile on his face falls as soon as he looks up to spot Michonne rounding a corner with her sword drawn. He opens his mouth to say something in his defense, but uh… the scene is pretty damning so he just shrugs his shoulders at her. He has no excuse.

Michonne just shakes her head with a faint smile before sheathing her sword and calling out to the others, "We're clear!"

Marshall lets his shoulders relax when Michonne turns to go back to her search and smiles softly at the chain he's got in his hand. He runs his thumb over the small metal anchor, tracing over the little grooves. It's a bit of a paltry gift compared to the knife Daryl got him, but… in more ways than one, Daryl kind of is his anchor. Shit… That sounds too cheesy. There's no way he can give this to the hunter. He probably wouldn't like it… Marshall frowns before sliding it into his rucksack and wandering back to his cart. There's more important stuff he should be looking for. He's just about to swivel into the vitamin aisle when a loud crashing noise rings through the building followed by some yelling.

He shoves the cart towards the exit before grabbing his pick and running towards the noise. He hears Glenn call out from the opposite end of the store, "What happened?"

Zach's the first to respond, "Everyone's alright! We're over in wine and beer."

Marshall rounds an aisle only to spot all of the booze shelves toppled over and Bob pinned down at the center. Well, shit. He only manages a few steps when the ceiling gives way and a walker suddenly drops down, dangling on its own intestines that had gotten caught on some metal. He doesn't even get the chance to be disgusted when it dawns on him… If one walker fell through... Oh fuck. There's probably more. He stares at it for a second before glancing at the others, "We need to go. Now."

"Bob's still stuck." Daryl grunts out, moving to lift one of the shelves, "We need to get him outta there."

"Fuck." Marshall hisses before running over to Daryl's side, but more and more walkers keep falling through the ceiling. It's fucking raining walkers! One of them drops right in front of him and he stumbles backwards. Instinct drives him to cleave its skull with his pick but there's more coming. Fuck. This is too cramped for him to use his bow. He kicks at its corpse and yanks his pick loose before reaching for the knife at his hip and pulling it out of its sheath. If there were ever a time to christen it, now would be it. With his pick in his left hand and his knife in his right, he lashes out at the next few biters, grunting with each swing, but for every one he manages to take out, another one fucking falls through.

One of them damn near lands right on top of him and he barely managed to step to the side. "Fucking disgusting piece of shit!" He curses as he crushes its skull with his boot before turning his attention to the others. Daryl's getting cornered himself, but Marshall spots Glenn running to his side. Okay. He's good. Marshall grumbles under his breath as he fumbles to keep himself clear. This was supposed to be a quick and easy run, damn it. He'd have packed a pistol if he knew this was the kind of shit they'd be running into. Can't do much without his bow, but he can handle himself. They all can, except… Fuck. Zach.

"Zach!" He glances around, desperately trying to spot him. He lets out a relieved breath when he finds him. He's not too far away, but he's getting cornered quickly. He drives his knife into the temple of another walker before sprinting over to the teen, kicking away one of the biters trying to reach him. "Come on!" He grabs his sleeve roughly and yanks Zach towards him, practically dragging him along. Marshall cusses under his breath as they make their way back to where Bob's pinned down. Fuck, fuck fuck! If they don't do something _now_, they're all going to die. "It's now or never!" The two of them lift the shelf as much as they can while Daryl drags Bob out from under it.

There's a sharp creaking noise above them and Marshall spares a glance up to notice just why the roof was collapsing. There's a fucking helicopter weighing it down and inching down further by the second. They've got to move – now! He grabs onto Zach's arm and tugs him along when he hears Zach yelp suddenly. He turns around just in time to see the flare of panic in the teen's eyes as he starts to stumble and fall. A walker's latching onto his leg, snapping its teeth as it tries to pull itself closer. No! Marshall sprints toward the corpse and stomps at its skull until it lets go before hooking an arm under Zach and urging him up, "On your feet! Let's go!"

"Come on!" He hears Daryl cry out as they all make a mad dash towards the exit, but Marshall… Well. Marshall spots his shopping cart of goods near the entrance and shoves Zach on ahead before making a run to it and carting it out through a plume of dust and debris.

The fresh air's a relief as he coughs a few times once he's outside and shakes the dust out his hair before tugging down his scarf and grinning sheepishly at everyone giving him a hard look. "Well, fuck. Couldn't let this run be a waste, yeah?" His expression turns serious when he spots Zach looking a little pale and abandons the cart to step closer to him, thinking the worst. He drops down to one knee and starts patting down his calves. No bites – thank God. Fuck. That was too close. He brings himself to stand before squeezing the teen's shoulder, "You're alright."

Zach nods a bit but doesn't say anything, earning him a frown from Marshall.

"Hey." He cranes his neck a little, trying to meet his eyes. Eventually, he does. "You're alright. You're safe."

"Dude." Zach stares at him, looking a little lost and confused, "You could've gotten yourself killed."

Marshall shrugs his shoulders lightly, "Probably, but I had a chance. I took it."

"But why?"

Marshall smiles softly at him and gives his shoulder another firm squeeze, "We've got each other's backs." He glances around at the rest of their group still gathering their bearings, "Don't ask why. Just be glad you get to go back to someone waiting on you, yeah?" That manages to brighten him up, and Marshall gives him one last pat before stepping away to help the others stow what little they'd managed to get into the trunks of their vehicles. It's not much… They could probably come back another day if they're willing to dig through all the debris, but it might be too big of a risk. Marshall clicks his tongue slightly in frustration as they pile back into their cars. There's no point wasting any more time here.

The sun's just about set by the time they make it back to the prison. Everyone was quiet in his car, but at least they all came back in one piece. Marshall helps with unloading their supplies before excusing himself and making a quick run to his room to drop off his gear and grab a change of clothes just before heading off to the showers. Three pumps is all they get, but the one he picks out is the one notorious for giving a few extra seconds and _damn_ if those few seconds aren't worth it. He still remembers the first time he'd wandered back to their cellblock after a shower. The looks he'd gotten when everyone seemed to realize for the first time that he was actually blond was priceless. Dirty blond, but still. Turns out that having weeks' worth of oil in your hair makes it look darker than it is.

He snickers softly at the memory and dries himself off with the towel before slipping on a pair of boxer briefs, a black tank top, and his infamous navy blue sweatpants. They'd gotten a bit of a reputation - if they're done for the day, he'll switch out to them even if he's in the middle of a conversation. He hangs the towel on the rack to dry before tiptoeing back to his room. His door's always open. Literally. It can't close. The closest it can get to being closed is being _ajar_. That's the one consequence of zip tying one to the metal gate, but he doesn't mind. It's not like he really does anything to warrant needing that extra level of privacy. His room's already far away enough, but everyone still knocks on it regardless.

With a content sigh, he drops onto his bed and rolls on his side to turn on his lamp. The generator they'd gotten was a huge plus. Propping up his pillow against the wall, he grabs the book he'd left on his end table before skimming to the page he'd left off on. It's… not that great of a read, but Carol had recommended it to him, and he figured he'd do her the solid and actually finish it off. It's uh… a romance novel. A cheesy one at that. Jesus… Maybe that's why he'd picked that up? His eyes wander to his rucksack and he stares at it for a few seconds before shaking his head and turning his attention back to the pages. Probably.

After a few minutes, there's a soft knock on his door and he smiles softly. Weird as it may sound, he's learned which knocks belong to who. This one was Beth's, soft and quiet. The exact opposite of Daryl's. "Come in," He calls out without looking away from the book. He hears her step inside and he glances up to spot her beaming at him, hands wrung behind her. Marshall pulls his feet close to him and pats down the corner of his bed for her to sit down.

"Hi." Beth coos at him before plopping down at the foot of his bed. She looks a little flushed with her hair a bit disheveled, and Marshall's half tempted to make a comment on it, but he bites his tongue. He'll tease her another day.

"Hey." He responds and puts down his book. "Something up?"

"No," Beth smiles at him before swinging her legs off the edge a bit and biting at her lower lip, "I just talked to Zach."

"Did you?" Marshall smirks at her. Now he can't resist. "So that's why you're all red. I wasn't going to say anything but –"

"Shut it," She shoves at him playfully, but she looks embarrassed. "That's not the point. He told me you went back for him. I guess I'm trying to say thank you."

Marshall pouts slightly, "Why're you thanking me?"

Beth shrugs softly. "You didn't have to go back. You could've left. Should've." Marshall feels a shudder run down his spine at that. It's easy to forget that beneath her soft skin, she's… just as jaded to the world as the rest of them are. She'd told him once she doesn't cry anymore. She's strong, yeah, but… She's hardened herself to the world. Marshall's been trying hard not to. Not fully, at least. He's pulled out of his thoughts when she wraps her arms around him awkwardly in a hug. "I'm glad I didn't say goodbye."

"We've lost enough people." He squeezes her a bit before she pulls away and he grins at her, "So, I guess that means we're up to 31 days without an accident, huh?"

"Yup." She pops the p and beams at him. It's a new record. Hopefully, it lasts.

* * *

_A/N__:_ Phew! I've been busy. Updated the banner for the fic and some things on my profile regarding The Weight of Living. I added a link to the knife I've got in mind for Marshall - most everyone on the show has a signature knife of their own so I figured I'd join in. Anyways, I've got a general idea of where I'm taking the story now, so… I took down the original teaser poster. It's not really valid anymore, aha~ I've got the banner for Part II up in its stead. Next chapter might come a little later. I'm… quality checking my older chapters, I suppose? Takes a lot longer than I'd anticipated, oof.


	16. Exposure

**Chapter 16: Exposure**

_A/N__: _Oh man. I found this song that's just utterly haunting - I _had_ to link it as an alternate theme for Part II! Also, a quick thank you to those of you leaving reviews. I wake up with a smile when I see an email notifying me about y'all~

* * *

A gunshot rings loud and clear through the halls of the cellblock, and Marshall jolts awake in an instant, trying to rub the grogginess out of his eyes. The hell was that…? He frowns as he sits up and stares out at the railing, tilting his head to try and listen. His frown only grows when he doesn't hear anything for a few seconds. Must've been one hell of a dream if it felt and sounded as real as it did. He grumbles under his breath before rolling his shoulders a bit and stifling a yawn. He should be getting up right about now anyways. Why doesn't anyone ever wake him up?

His blood damn near freezes over when he hears a series of gunshots echoing off the walls. _Holy shit_. He didn't imagine it. He scrambles out from under his sheets and clambers toward his end table, frantically grabbing at his knife and handgun, tucking the pistol into the waistband of his sweatpants. He's barreling out of his room in his pajamas before he knows it, practically leaping down the stairs and darting towards the source of the noise. The bullets don't stop ringing. Oh, man. Oh, _fuck_. It's coming from inside the prison. Is it a breach? Whatever's going on is happening at Cell Block D from the sounds of it. Images of the worst possibilities keep flashing through his head as he runs through the halls, bare feet padding against the concrete floor. Oh God.

"Fuck!" He grits out just as he slams right into Rick and Daryl, but now's not the time for apologies. He takes a step back before trailing behind them. "What's going on?"

"Walkers in D." Daryl shouts out from ahead. Shit.

"How?" The question slips past his lips.

It shouldn't be possible. The fence isn't going to give, and they've got the tombs sealed away… It doesn't make any sense. He can only grit his teeth when he doesn't get a response from the two men ahead of him. Looks like it's just as much of a mystery to them as it is to him. Damn it. God fucking damn it. The closer they get to the cell block, the more he can hear the screams. The sound of a shotgun firing has him running faster, squeezing past the sheriff and the hunter. He skids to a halt at the entrance before snatching the shotgun from one of the older Woodbury refugees.

"What are you doing?" Marshall barks out, "You could hit the others!" He snaps before composing himself, "Are you bit?" The old man shakes his head weakly and Marshall sighs before guiding him out to safety quickly. "Get out of here."

It's pure chaos. Marshall does his best to try and help those that aren't injured get out safely, but there's so much movement, it's hard to tell who's bitten and who's already turned. Someone slams into his shoulder and he loses his balance for a second before he spots a man barely managing to keep a walker off of them. As Marshall plunges his knife into its skull, he suddenly realizes something as the body drops lifeless onto the ground. They're putting down their own people. Fuck. He lets out a shaky breath before grunting and checking to see if the man's alright before shoving him towards the exit.

His eyes land on Luke and he panics when he spots the walker crawling toward him. He's just a kid! Nine years old, at best. He runs toward him and scoops him up into his arms before sliding out his handgun and firing a shot at the walker's head. The kid's a nervous wreck, but he's alright. That's enough to ease his nerves and Marshall doubles back to the exit before setting him down and telling him to follow the others out. The block's mostly clear by now. They've got it under control, but looking at all the bodies littering the ground has a pit forming in his stomach. He shakes the feeling off before he joins the others in checking the cells for any walkers they might've missed.

"Are we clear down here?" Rick calls out from the other end. Marshall winds up glancing at him from his tone. It'd been a long time since Rick played the role of leader. The only reason Marshall even had a spot on the council was because Rick kept turning down the invitation.

"Yeah." Sasha responds.

"Are we safe?" Rick continues.

Marshall nods at him before glancing at the upper level. "Looks like. I'll check up top." He brandishes his knife, palm getting clammy from his nerves as he climbs up the stairs. There's more bodies up here and he can't help but grimace as he steps around it, trying not to look at its face. It'll be easier if he doesn't check just who they lost. It's quiet as he steps towards the cells. A little too quiet. He checks the first room, tossing aside the curtain roughly. It's clear. He steps toward the next cell, but he makes the mistake of looking back at the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. It's just Daryl.

A snarl draws back his attention and he instinctively reaches out to grab the walker by its neck to keep it at arm's length. The walker slams him into the wall and he grunts as he tries to wring his spare hand free. Oh fuck. No, no, no… It can't be. His hazel eyes lock onto the dead pair of what used to be Patrick's and he can't bring himself to move. How? He hears Daryl shout something at him and bolt lodges itself into the side of Patrick's head. A spray of blood lands on Marshall's face, breaking him out of his trance. He slumps down the wall and blinks a few times before raking a shaky hand through his hair. Now's not the time to grieve.

Daryl steps closer to him and Marshall glances at him wearily before realizing the hunter's offering him a hand up. He nods stiffly and takes a deep breath before clasping his hand and heaving himself up onto his feet. "Thanks." He mumbles quietly before turning to join the others. His eyes land on Patrick's body and he can only grimace as he looks him over. He didn't deserve this. Fuck… he was about to turn seventeen. "Oh." He hears the hunter say when he stands beside him, "It's Patrick."

Marshall can't tear his eyes away from the teen's body, but he can feel the hunter's gaze on him as if he's expecting him to say something. The words run dry in his throat though. Is there even anything to say? His breath catches when something dawns on him... The red streaks running down Patrick's face… He'd seen that before. Yeah… Yeah. That one walker outside the fence, the one that'd unsettled him. He'd never seen something like that before and now here it is again so soon? Oh. Oh God… It's a disease. It's a fucking disease and he's got –

A surge of panic flares through him and he takes a step back suddenly, looking down at himself in horror. It's on his face. It's on his neck. He needs to get it off. _Now_. Frantically, he starts rubbing at his face with his hands, trying to wipe the blood off but just managing to smear it all over. Someone snatches his wrist and he looks up to meet the worried eyes of Daryl. Glenn and Rick share the expression. They think he's going off the rails like before.

"Marshall," Rick starts up, voice like a diplomat. "He was a good kid, but –"

"No," Marshall tries to worm away, but Daryl's grip doesn't let up, "That's not –" He lets out a miserable groan before pointing at Patrick's body with his free hand, "He was sick! I was going to check up on him yesterday, but Carol said he was feeling sick so I didn't bother him. He died because _he was_ _sick_, and I've got his blood _on me_."

"Freakin' out ain't gonna help." Daryl mumbles while still holding his wrist and Marshall's about to shoot him an exasperated look when the hunter shoulders his crossbow and pulls out his bandana from his back pocket. "Calm down." Daryl starts to wipe down Marshall's face with a gentle roughness that catches him off guard. He doesn't even notice Rick and Glenn leaving to check the other cells. The last time Daryl did something like this was months ago, and it was rough and stung like hell. This is… He doesn't know what this is, and it has him staring at the hunter. "There." Daryl says gruffly before stuffing the piece of cloth back into his pocket.

There's a softness in the hunter's blue eyes that manages to ease his nerves, and Marshall smiles faintly at him. He really is an anchor. "Thanks, Daryl."

Daryl bites at his lower lip and fidgets a bit where he stands, "Mm."

The two of them part ways and join the others in doing one final sweep of the upper deck. There's a few bodies they need to stop from reanimating, but it's all clear. All except for Charlie, who'd turned and was locked up in his own cell. He has blood running down his face. Just like Patrick. They wait for Hershel and Dr. S – _Caleb_, his mind supplies – to come in and take a look at the body. They only confirm what Marshall already knew. It was a disease, and it worked fast. Choking to death on your own blood… It sounds awful. He folds his arms over his chest, frowning grimly. Patrick went through that.

"How could someone die in just a day from a cold?" Daryl asks and Marshall finds himself nodding at the question. It doesn't make sense.

"I had a sick pig, it died quick." Rick's crouching down by the bunk, running a hand across his forehead, "Saw a sick boar in the woods."

"Pigs and birds." Hershel speaks up, "That's how these things spread in the past. We need to do something about those hogs."

"Maybe we got lucky." Marshall rolls his eyes at Dr. S's words. "Maybe these two cases are it."

"Haven't seen anyone be lucky in a long time. Bugs like to run through close quarters." Bob's right. There's no way this is it. "Doesn't get any closer than this."

"All of us in here, we've all been exposed."

Marshall shudders at the thought. Man, he'd worked so hard to reinforce the fence – keep the walkers out – and now they're dealing with a threat that they can't _physically_ deal with. He feels fucking useless here. He's not even sure they have the medicine to deal with this kind of crisis. They decide to gather the council for an emergency meeting to talk about the mess they've got on their hands, but Marshall's only half listening to what's being said. It's one thing to breathe the air around someone infected… It's another thing to come in contact with their bodily fluids. Fuck… His fingers are drumming nervously on the dusty table top.

The word quarantine comes up and his fingers stop. They're talking about separating the sick, sorting them out in order to protect those that are healthy. It isn't just about being sick after all… Die from being sick, and you become a threat. He's trying real hard not to think about the epidemic they might be having right now. He's trying even harder not to think about the fact he might've gotten blood in his mouth. He doesn't say a word through the meeting, but he nods along to what they're saying. It makes sense. He's just thinking… Maybe he should stick to his nest tonight. Just in case – especially after they find out Karen and David are already showing symptoms.

This'll only get worse before it gets better.

"I'll get to buryin' the dead ones." Daryl mumbles while tugging at the strap of his crossbow.

Marshall snaps to attention, "I'm coming with."

"You wear gloves and a mask. Both of you."

Marshall murmurs a quiet 'yessir', but he's got a sinking feeling that protection won't make much a difference now. If they get sick, then they get sick but still. He'll do what Hershel asks. He nods at Daryl and Carol before leaving them be and wandering outside towards their cell block. There's no way he can step inside with Judith in there, but he manages to get Beth to grab his scarf and rucksack and toss them at him from a safe distance. He thanks her quietly, wrapping the dark scarf around his face and neck before wandering over to the small shed they'd built near the field to house all the tools and gear they've gathered. Slipping on a pair of gardening gloves, he grabs one of the shovels before sidling over to the pile of wrapped bodies stacked near the plot of graves.

Ten bodies. Ten more graves to dig.

He sighs softly and stabs the shovel into the dirt before leaning against the handle a little. The sun's beating warmly on his bare shoulders. A laugh manages to escape his lips when he realizes he hasn't even gotten to change to change out of his clothes. He might have a spare shirt lying around his nest somewhere, but they've got more important things to worry about right now. The fence creaks slightly and Marshall glances over to the dozens of walkers pressing up against it. If the tires weren't there, they'd probably be dealing with a collapsing fence. At least he can feel better knowing he prevented that, but it's enough to hide the gnawing feeling he's got in his chest.

With a grunt, he starts to dig, only stopping once to give Daryl a brief nod when he joins him. Rick stops by at one point, talks to Daryl about something, but Marshall's too busy keeping himself distracted with shoveling dirt. It's easier not to think if you keep yourself busy. A hand claps on his shoulder and Marshall stiffens. He turns slightly and runs a gloved hand across his brow before meeting Rick's gaze. The ex-sheriff doesn't say anything, but he gives him a firm look before nodding at him. It only makes Marshall frown under his scarf when Rick picks up a shovel of his own and steps closer to where they're working.

"You gave us quite the scare back there." Marshall shuts his eyes at Rick's words. "Are you holding up alright?"

This isn't something he wants to talk about. Not right now. "I'm fine."

"You don't look it." This time it's Daryl that speaks up and Marshall opens his eyes to realize the hunter's stopped digging and is watching him instead. Shit. He's getting tag teamed.

Marshall yanks his scarf down angrily and scowls at the two of them, "What is it you two want me to say?" The sheer anger in his voice seems to catch the two men off guard and Marshall takes a deep breath, reigning himself in, "We lost a lot of people. Good people."

"Lost Patrick." Daryl mumbles quietly and Marshall shoots him a dangerous glare that quickly fades into something frail and weak and miserable.

"Yeah. Yeah, we did." He sniffs softly, feeling the tears starting to well in his eyes. Slowly, he lifts his scarf back up and turns back the shallow grave he's standing it. "He was just sixteen, man." He starts to dig again, feeling the eyes of the other two men burning into his back. "He was – He wanted to learn how to use the bow. Wanted to learn how to defend himself. I told him if I found another bow out on a run, I'd teach him. I've been keeping an eye out, but… no dice."

"He was a good kid." Rick offers again, trying to comfort him he figures. It doesn't really help.

"Yeah. He was." Marshall rubs at his eyes hastily before turning to face the hunter, "He looked up to you, you know?" That makes Daryl fidget, but he doesn't break eye contact and Marshall smiles ruefully at him. "Had a bit of a hero worship thing for you. I think that's why he wanted to learn how to use the bow. Get you to teach him how to hunt and track and all that shit." He curses when he feels a tear rolling down his cheek and wipes it away quickly, sniffling slightly as he turns his attention back to getting their dead buried. "Let's just get this over with. I'll be fine... I just need some time."

Thankfully, the two of them let it drop and they continue what they were doing in a tense silence. Marshall can feel their eyes wander onto him from time to time, but he can't be bothered to care right now. Once they're done, he takes a step back and offers a silent prayer for the lost before dropping his head and excusing himself. The first place he heads to is his nest, clambering up the metal ladder he'd hooked to the chain-link fence of the bridge. He just needs some space right now. He plops onto the futon before yanking off his scarf and tossing it against the wall.

Minutes drift into hours and soon the once blue sky turns a soft shade of orange. Part of him feels a bit guilty for shirking his responsibilities, but… he figures with Rick doing more than just farming now, he could get away with it just this one time. Because that's what this is. The one time. He's not stupid. More people are going to get sick. He could get sick. Now's the time to let himself grieve, because he might not be able to later. A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he sits up and reaches into his rucksack to grab his lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He's popping a smoke in his mouth when he hears footsteps clanging up the ladder.

Only one person climbs up here unannounced like that.

"We're supposed to be keeping away from each other, you know." Marshall grumbles while trying to get his cigarette lit. He sucks in a breath and lets out a puff of smoke just in time to watch Daryl's head to poke out over the ledge. "I don't want to talk about it." He murmurs before flipping around on the futon so he can look out from under the overhang.

Daryl huffs as he climbs up and sits along the edge, making sure to keep some distance between the two of them. "Can I at least have a smoke?"

The way he says it manages to get a laugh out of Marshall and he instantly feels guilty for managing to laugh at a time like this. Daryl seems to pick up on that. "Go ahead." He slides the pack and lighter over towards the hunter before staring out at the stars starting to peek out in the night sky. This silence? This one is comfortable and safe. One that he'd gotten used to. Their shoulders might not be touching this time, but it's still… something. A little light, a little warmth, in the middle of something awful. He winds up dozing off with a half burnt cigarette poking out of his lips and a blanket strewn over him.


	17. Confinement

**Chapter 17: Confinement**

_A/N__:_ Woops. Sorry for the delay! Got caught up thinking about a Vampire/Werewolf!AU fic that I _might_ humor.

* * *

Marshall takes a deep breath and rolls his head back, closing his eyes and letting the sun warm his face.

He's sitting on his knees in front of the small little garden he'd started up months back, now blooming and alive. Once the flowers had come to life, he'd decided to build a small ring of rocks around them – a little personal touch. There's lilies, and lilacs, and marigolds. All pretty little things that just feel… wrong at a time like this. He thumbs the petals of a golden orange marigold before letting his eyes wander across the field. He'd heard the screams earlier in the morning. Heard how frantic and pained they'd sounded. It's what woke him up.

And now Tyreese is out on the field with Bob, digging graves for Karen and David.

Someone had murdered them. Killed them while they slept and dragged their bodies out to burn them. Marshall wasn't there. He didn't see it – didn't _smell _it – but he doesn't want to. It's bad enough that they've got a potential outbreak on their hands, but now they know they've got someone in their ranks willing to kill another member. Another survivor. There's a knot building in his stomach when he thinks about it. He can understand why they did it. Get rid of the only two people showing symptoms, and stop the spread of the disease. He can get it, but that doesn't mean it sits well with him.

The feeling in his gut doesn't ease up, though. How could it, with so much shit going on around him? He winds up biting at his lower lip until it bleeds and curses under his breath before pressing a finger to the cut. Damn it. What is there even for him to do? You can't fight a flu with guns and knives. He groans lightly before drawing his hand away and wiping the blood on his tanktop. A soft breeze sways the flowers and Marshall sighs softly before picking up the watering can and sprinkling them gently. He almost misses the shadow approaching him from behind.

"Oh." He mumbles before glancing over his shoulder. He smiles a little when he realizes it's just Mika, though. "Hey. Where's Lizzie?"

"She's not feeling so well," comes the soft reply. Were it any other day, he'd wrap and arm around her shoulder and try to comfort her, but… He can't. Fuck. More and more people are getting sick.

"I'm sorry to hear that." And he means it. He really does. "Lizzie likes flowers doesn't she?" Mika nods slightly and he smiles at her, "How about we bring her one from the garden? I can make an exception today." The girls liked to snatch up wildflowers growing just outside the fence. Carol was the one that made sure they didn't touch the garden. It was kind of a sanctuary, after all. Most everyone knew that. At her smile, he grabs the clipper from nearby and snips off a marigold carefully before holding it out to her. "Tell her it's from me, yeah?"

The young girl nods a few times before taking the flower gingerly and wandering off. Marshall can't help but sigh while he watches her leave. Even the kids are getting sick now. The feeling in his stomach twists and he lurches forward, pinching the bridge of his nose. He stays like that for a few seconds until it ebbs away and sits up properly. Fuck. This doesn't feel like his usual anxiety. He cranes his neck a bit, working out a few kinks before standing up and dusting off his sweatpants. Over by the fence, he spots Michonne and Daryl clearing out some walkers clinging to the fence. The sight's enough to bring a small smile to his face. Daryl'd been worried Michonne wouldn't stick around. She always found a reason to leave, after all.

"You guys need any help?" Marshall calls out once he gets close enough. It's kind of a stupid question. He knows they've got it covered, but he's got this uneasy feeling that won't seem to go away. He just needs to do something. That'll get his mind off of it.

"Nah," Daryl grunts and jabs a walker in the skull before taking a step back, turning to squint at Marshall. "We got it covered. Take the day off, man. You earned it."

Marshall frowns slightly at that. He doesn't want pity or… whatever this is, but he doesn't feel up to arguing about it, so he just nods stiffly and takes a few steps back. He'd pinch the bridge of his nose right then and there, but someone's hollering at them from the cellblocks. It's Glenn. Marshall jogs a little closer, trying to catch what he's saying. His blood nearly freezes over when he hears him say they're gathering the Council _now_. The meeting wasn't meant to be until tomorrow… Something happened. Fuck. He glances over his shoulder, giving Daryl a concerned look before waving him over.

The two of them make their way to the library with Michonne tagging along not far behind. If this meeting's about the epidemic, then he figures she should be allowed to join in considering she's one of the few people in the prison that hadn't been exposed. They file into the room, and Marshall pulls out a chair and settles himself in while the rest of the council slowly join them. Eventually, they're all accounted for. All except for Sasha… That couldn't mean… Yeah. It did. Hershel confirms what he's thinking: Sasha got sick. Dr. S got sick. Everyone that survived the attack on cell block D is sick. _Fuck._

Man, this is bad. This is really bad. They didn't have much medicine left, but if everyone's getting sick… they don't have enough to treat them. That's the reason Hershel called the meeting now. They need to make a run and try and gather medicine or risk losing everyone, but they've already picked clean every single pharmacy nearby. The only place left is a veterinary college farther than they'd dared venture out before. There's never really been a need – not yet, at least.

"That's 50 miles," Daryl grumbles, sitting backwards on his chair. "Too big a risk before. Ain't now." Daryl huffs slightly before standing up and grabbing his crossbow, "I'm gonna take a group out. Best not waste any more time." The hunter gives Marshall an expectant look, one that brings a smile to his lips. "You comin', Marsh?"

Marshall opens his mouth to say yes when a wave of uneasiness washes over him. He hunches over in his chair and cups his mouth, trying to ride it out. Only it doesn't go away, and after a few seconds of staying like that, the hunter starts to approach him. Marshall brings up his spare hand, gesturing for the other man to stop, to keep his fucking distance. "Sorry," He manages to muster eventually, "Don't think I can join you this time." The look on Daryl's face when he realizes Marshall's sick is damn near heartbreaking. Marshall can't bear to look at it, so he shifts his eyes to Hershel. "I'll join the others in A."

He staggers onto his feet, and everything he'd been trying to ignore him at once. Fuck. Of course he gets sick. He fights the urge to pat Daryl on the shoulder when he walks past him on his way out. It's too much of a risk… So, he just purses his lips and slowly exits the room, feeling the hunter's eyes on him as he makes his way to the quarantine. The situation in there is bad. He got that much. Too many people getting sick. He lets out a shaky breath before finding himself stopping in the middle of the corridor. The memorial wall's here.

There are a few candles still burning on the table. It'd been a very long time since he'd actually stopped to look at it, to look at how full the bulletin board had gotten since he'd set it up. Everyone seemed to avoid pinning over his original photo and card. There's one on table with something scrawled onto it… He takes a few steps closer to it and grabs the card, curiosity getting the better of him. The only thing written on it is a sloppy '**NOT LIKE THIS**'. Marshall shudders and drops the slip of paper before stepping away hastily. He can't let himself think like that. He shakes his head roughly – almost regretting it instantly – and continues trudging down the halls towards cell block A.

He'd like to think that everything he'd been through would've prepared him for what it would be like to step through the door, but… nothing really could prepare him for this. There's a lot of people, a lot of coughing, and a lot of miserable noises. It feels an awful lot like walking into Hell. A shiver runs down his spine as he takes in everything going on, or maybe it's just the fever catching up to him. Fuck. He doesn't like it here. It's gritty and it just… if it's possible to feel pestilence, he figures this is what it would feel like. Marshall grunts as he makes his way up to the second level before plopping down by the railing, letting his feet hang off the edge of the catwalk while resting against the middle bar.

After a while, more and more people enter quarantine. Glenn's here now and so is Lizzie, but Marshall can't bring himself to do more than sigh heavily before breaking into a coughing fit. Fuck. He wishes he could've gone with Daryl. Fifty miles… fifty miles meant that Daryl'd get back with the medicine the next morning if everything goes to plan, but… when does anything ever go as planned anymore? He groans softly and leans forward some more. Just breathe – that's what he needs to do. In and out. He can pull through this. He won't… He won't die 'cause of a cold. No way. _No fucking way._

Marshall's grumbling something to himself when Glenn slides down against the wall behind him. He rolls his head lazily and nods at him before going back to resting his head on his arms folded over the bar. Time kind of starts to blur when you're in the company of misery. When Hershel starts speaking and Marshall realizes the old vet's in here at all, he's just about ready to tell him to go somewhere safe, but Hershel's brought some tea that's meant to be a natural flu remedy. Begrudgingly, he stays quiet and drinks from the small metal cup, hoping the tea'll manage to do something. Hope… That's a funny thing to think about now. He thanks the older man before Hershel tends to Glenn. It's hard not to hear what they're talking about this close.

"We can pull through this," Marshall murmurs once Hershel's out of earshot.

Glenn shifts behind him, coughing, "What?"

"I said we can pull through this. Just gotta…" He lurches forward uneasily before reeling himself back in, "Just have to stay zen. That's what Daryl says. Stay zen." Marshall lets himself fall backwards, his back landing roughly on the grated metal floor. "I don't know about you, but… I didn't live through all that I did just to die now. From this." He gestures weakly at everything before letting his hand drop heavily, "I fucking refuse to… Not after everything."

Glenn doesn't say anything. Maybe he's too tired to answer.

"After Savannah," Marshall continues, "I was alone for a good while. I got desperate… I trusted the first group I ran across." A sigh escapes his lips while he stares at the dark ceiling, "They seemed like decent folk, but… Looking back, I was probably just trying to convince myself. Wound up getting knocked out and woke up with my hands tied behind me propped against a wall. There were a few others too. These guys… they branded people. Kept some of them for _fun_. The rest, they ate. One of the others there… Anna, I think… She helped me escape. We were going to run together, but then… I got bit. She left me behind. Just like Molly."

"Why are you telling me this?" Glenn struggles to ask.

"I don't know." Marshall answers honestly, stifling a cough, "Maybe I just needed to confess. I went through that, man. I was alone for so long after that, scared to even risk getting close to other people. Honestly, I was considering offing myself, but… I found you guys. Found Daryl." He manages to smile at that, "I found my reason to live. I'm sure you have yours. Just don't let it go. Cling to it, and don't let it fucking go, you hear me?"

The rest of the night blurs into a mass of aches and coughing. He'd migrated over to a cell, trying to at least get _some_ rest, and he might've managed to fall asleep a few times, but he'd only wind up waking up from a coughing fit. It's enough to make him want to laugh darkly. Funny, the times his body actually needs to rest and recover, he can't seem to fucking manage it. Once the sun started to filter in through the barred windows, he was up. Sweating, panting, and feeling the worst he's ever felt in his entire fucking life, but he was up. And he was alive... for now.

Hershel needed some help doing his rounds checking in on everyone. If he's been around them this long without getting sick, he probably wouldn't be getting sick, but he's still a man and the marks of exhaustion are starting to show on his face. Maybe that's what sets him, Sasha, and Glenn apart. They've all got an instinct: to survive, and to help. So the three of them help Hershel out when they can, but the minutes only stretch into hours and there's still no sign of Daryl. Fuck… Daryl… Marshall can only pray and hope he's alive at least, but it just feels like he's praying for a lost cause. It's already midday and there's still no sign of them.

No... He can't start thinking like that. Daryl'll get here. He'll bring the medicine. They'll survive.

At least, that's what he thinks until someone fucking dies, right then and there in the middle of the cell block as the sun starts to set, choking on his own blood. Fuck. They're reaching endgame, he realizes. This is the tipping point, where they either live or they die without medicine apparently. All things considered… he's holding up alright. Better than Glenn and Sasha, but not by much. It still feels like he's got a weight pressing down on him, fogging up his head, but he's trying to focus himself. He needs to, now more than ever. Hershel… Hershel's going to need him. He's going to need anyone who's able to stand once people start turning, but right now Sasha's helping him move the body out.

Hershel's smart. Hope is a small thing, but it can work wonders. Let people see what can happen to them, and they start to lose hope. The mind is a powerful thing, but… how long are they supposed to last on tea and sheer will? Not… not much longer, he figures, but he does what Hershel asks. He closes the gate to his cell and sits on his bed, waiting. Waiting on a miracle, maybe. The eerie thing is just… how quiet the cell block's gotten lately. There's not much coughing anymore, and that only has his nerves more on edge. Fight or flight. That's what it is.

A gunshot ringing through the cellblock clears some of the haze in his head and he staggers onto his feet, clumsily reaching for the knife clipped to his waistband. It's hard to make out the noises, but there are people screaming and that has him trying to open the gate of his cell a little too fast. He groans as the corners of his vision start to turn black. Come on... He needs to be alert. It takes him a few seconds to finally collect himself before he manages to step out onto the catwalk. His grip is loose on his knife as he glances from side to side. Oh fuck! There's a walker chasing after Lizzie!

"Lizzie!" He manages to cry out, and the walker turns around to face him, blood trailing down its face. Fuck. It's Henry. Marshall groans slightly as he tries to position himself to take it down. He's going to get one shot. He can't miss. He's too fucking tired to try and fight off a walker, so he ignores Lizzie calling out to him, telling him to stop. He can't worry about that right now. When he sees his opening, he lunges forward and plunges the knife hilt deep into the corpse's temple and it collapses onto the railing. Unfortunately, he doesn't have the strength to pull it out, so he leaves it there. What matters is that Lizzie's safe.

"Are you alright?" He asks as he crouches by her, checking to see if she's alright.

"How could you do that?" Lizzie asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Marshall frowns at her, confused. "What?"

"You killed him." Lizzie's staring at him as if he were a monster. It's enough to have him stand back up, "How could you do that?" She repeats, raising her voice, "You killed him! You killed Henry! You killed him!"

Marshall takes a step back, not understanding what's going on, but Lizzie follows, yelling at him with an anger he didn't expect from her. He tries to explain to her that Henry was dead already, but the more she yells at him, the dizzier he gets. He can't focus… He can't keep his eyes on her. He tries to get her to stop, to slow down, but she won't listen and he can't get the words out properly. His head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds and he can't… He can't… The black at the corner of his vision threatens to overtake him and he can't do anything to stop it from swallowing him whole. The last thing he remembers is everything going dark and his body going limp.

* * *

_A/N__: _Alright. I've got a poll up for y'all in my profile. I'm going to let y'all pick which group you want Marshall to wind up with in Part II 'cause we are getting close to wrapping up Part I! Don't worry, there's still a few more chapters before shit hits the fan, but speak now or forever hold your peace! I'm rolling with the majority's vote.


	18. Warmth

**Chapter 18: Warmth**

_A/N__:_ I usually try to keep my notes short since I respond to reviews through PMs, but I got two guests so this is an exception~ Honestly, guest #1, if I didn't already have an idea for how I want Marshall and Daryl's relationship to evolve, I'd have no qualms with tossing Marshall with Daryl (and Beth) once the prison falls, but… I've got plans that would wonk up~ It's the main reason those two aren't an option on the poll.

Conflicted Guest, I completely get what you mean. I put the poll up 'cause I can't decide for myself which route to take! They all have potential – Alone in particular, but that route is honestly one of the darker ones. My lips are sealed on your speculation though. :) And, uh, regarding the cannibals… Well, I suppose that all depends on which route wins the poll! They're not the same ones from the TV show – I had the original chapter depicting what happened to Marshall up almost a year ago (used to be chapter 2 before I removed it), then the TV show went and had the Terminus folks be cannibals. Stole my idea, they did.

* * *

Fuck… Ugh. His head hurts. What the hell happened? Marshall groans softly and stirs, memories slowly flooding back to him. Right. There'd been walkers running loose, and one of them was chasing after Lizzie. He'd killed it and gone to check up on her and… she started yelling at him as if he'd just murdered someone right in front of her eyes. Then everything had gone black. Shit. He must've passed out. It would explain why it feels like he's got daggers jabbing at his head. With a grumble, he tries to sit up, but a firm hand keeps him pinned to the bed.

At the feeling, his eyes shoot wide open, blinking a few times at the blurry figure holding him down. It takes a few seconds for the silhouette to become recognizable and… it's Daryl. A wave of relief washes over him, and Marshall smiles sappily at the hunter. "Hey." He murmurs quietly, enjoying the feel of Daryl's hand on his chest, but the warmth turns cold the second the hunter pulls his hand back. He doesn't remember the others getting back… Hell, he doesn't even remember making it to a bed. He frowns faintly when a realization hits him. "You shouldn't be here."

Daryl huffs and shrugs his shoulders, "If I was gonna get sick, I woulda hours ago." Marshall can't argue with that. If he was sick, he would've shown symptoms already. He wouldn't be surprised if Daryl's outdoorsmanship helped him dodge this shitstorm. It's then that Marshall notices that Daryl's holding up a nearly empty IV bag and Marshall frowns. How long was he out for? Daryl seems to pick up on what he's thinking. "'s already sunup."

"What?" Marshall tries to sit up again only to be shoved back down by Daryl. "Is Hershel alright? What happened? Is everything clear?" The questions pour out of him, trying to fill in the gaps missing in his memory. Shit. It had been chaos when he passed out. There were still walkers. There was still screaming. Oh, fuck. Is _he _alright?

"Hershel's fine." Daryl supplies, and Marshall lets out a sigh of relief, dropping his head back against the pillow. "Was a mess from what I heard. Got back a li'l after everythin' went to shit." The hunter's lips turn downward a little, "You cracked your head open. Vet's orders was to let you rest."

Tentatively, Marshall brings a hand up to the side of his head, tracing his hairline up until he feels the familiar texture of a bandage. He follows it across his forehead, wincing when he reaches tender skin. Shit. He curses under his breath before rolling his head on the pillow and staring at Daryl for a few seconds before grinning, "Look at you playing caretaker. I'm going to have to add this to the list of reasons why Daryl Dixon's a hero to Pat-" The name catches on his throat, suddenly remembering all that they'd lost… and the others he assumes they lost the night before. It takes him a few seconds, but he manages to smile at the other man. "Well… He picked a good hero."

"Stop." Daryl huffs, looking away. He fidgets on the crate he's sitting on, biting at his lip. "Don't know what he saw in me."

Marshall stares at him, dumbfounded by the way the hunter always seems to manage to bring himself down. Why does he always do that? "You need to cut that shit out, Daryl." That snaps the hunter's blue eyes to his, "You're a good man, you hear me? All of us see it. It doesn't matter what you were or what you did before the world went to shit – I've only ever seen you do good things. You help when you don't have to, and you never ask for thanks." Marshall smiles sadly at him and Daryl's stony look starts to waver, "You need to start believing it yourself one of these days."

The hunter opens his mouth to say something but quickly shuts his mouth, mulling his words over. When he finally does speak, his eyes are full of pain. "Carol's gone." That sends a chill down Marshall's spine. Oh God.

"Is she…?" This time, Daryl doesn't stop him from sitting up. It takes him a bit of effort, but he manages to swing his legs off the side of the bunk, his knees bumping against the hunter's but he doesn't move.

"Nah. She's alive." Daryl nods a few times, though it looks more like he might be trying to convince himself it's true. Marshall shoots him a questioning look, egging him to elaborate. "She killed Karen and David. Rick said she admitted to it. Said she did it for us. That she wasn't sorry. He left her out there 'cause of that. Man, that's her, but that ain't her…" Daryl looks so lost as he says it, and fuck… Marshall knows why. Of all the folks at the prison, he was closest to her the most. He knew her the longest. It's like when he lost Merle all over again.

"Rick shouldn't have done that. The council should've been the one to make a decision, but… Fuck." Marshall sighs before looking at the hunter's aching eyes. "I'm sorry, Daryl. I really am." He reaches out and places a hand on Daryl's shoulder, squeezing slightly, absentmindedly stroking the other man's neck with his thumb. Daryl leans into the gesture before the two of them realize what he just did. A panicked look crosses Daryl's face and he stumbles backwards up and off the crate, knocking it over in the process. Like a deer caught in headlights, Daryl watches him for a few seconds, confused, before his walls build back up.

"You should get some rest." The hunter grumbles before leaving the cell in a hurry, leaving Marshall to sit alone with a gnawing pit in his stomach. What the hell just happened…? Fuck, he'd… Ugh. He lets out a deep breath before turning his attention to the IV bag now dangling near the floor. With a grunt, he puts pressure near the needle before sliding it out, keeping his fingers where it used to be for a few seconds before letting the tube drop to the ground. The shitty feeling from the day before hasn't gone away fully, but _damn_ if he doesn't feel a hell of a lot better. The miracle that is medicine, huh?

With nothing else to do, he settles back into bed, staring at the dusty ceiling above, trying not think about what just happened between the two of them. It doesn't work. Marshall could've died. They all could've died. But they didn't. Thanks to Hershel, and thanks to Daryl for going on the supply run. It leaves him with a new feeling tying his stomach into knots. If he had died… Everything that he feels would've gone unsaid. He could've gone and passed away without saying a word. Maybe he should just be frank. After all, they just went through the biggest reminder that even behind sturdy walls and away from walkers, they still aren't safe. They'll never be safe. Not really.

But… He bites at his lower lip, wincing slightly when he feels the cut tear open again. Does Daryl even feel the same way? That look he had… What if he goes and says something and winds up fucking up what they have? Whatever it is that they have… Marshall sighs and stares wearily at the gray walls surrounding him. There goes any prospects of getting any more sleep, but he stays put, letting himself run through all possible outcomes in his head. A lot of them were bad. Most of them wound up with him getting punched in the face. Maybe he shouldn't say anything at all… His thoughts wander to the chain in his rucksack and… Well, actions spoke louder than words, right?

After a few hours in the cell, he's eventually greeted by Hershel coming to check up on him. The old vet removes the bandages around his head, frowning slightly at the gash near his temple. He wipes around the stitches with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol before fastening a small gauze pad over with some clean bandages. Marshall reaches up to scratch at it only to have his hand swatted away. Apparently, he was lucky enough to have slammed his head right into one of the cell gates when he passed out. It was going to leave a scar, but he doesn't really give a damn about that. Scars are part of the package when it comes to surviving. Everyone has them now.

The good thing is that apparently the threat's passed, and at least if anyone else gets sick for whatever reason, they've got the meds to treat them, but they should be good. They lost a lot of people, but they pulled through. 21 people in two days… The only comfort he has is knowing it could've been a lot worse. He gives Hershel his thanks before staggering onto his feet and his stomach rumbles so loud, he's almost embarrassed. The only thing he's had in the last day was the tea Hershel's been giving them. He can't help but laugh when he remembers Hershel's joke from last night that flew right past them all at the time. "I'd kill for some spaghetti right about now." He rubs idly at his stomach before wandering out of quarantine once Hershel gave him permission.

The memorial wall's untouched since he last saw it. All the folks from cell block D have to stay in A until they get it cleaned out. No one's had the time to actually visit it yet, or maybe they just don't want to. It hurts to think about all the people they lost. It makes his heart ache something fierce, but what can he do other than remember? Move on. That's the only option he can think of. Move on, and keep surviving, because he is alive now, at this moment. They all are. That in itself is a victory worth celebrating. He nods slowly before approaching the table and moving one of the taller candles towards the center. With a quick flick of the lighter, the wick flickers alive, crackling softly. Marshall offers a small prayer before continuing on his way back to well… his home.

Man, he didn't think he would miss being back in their cell block as much as he did. Beth was the first person to greet him, practically knocking him over with her hug. The rest greeted him warmly and… It reminds him of what family feels like. And… in a sense, they are. Maybe not by blood, but they all came from different wakes of lives, all different types of survivors and yet… here they all are, together, happy, and most importantly _alive._ Everyone from their original group's still around and kicking… Everyone but Carol. He shakes the thoughts out of his head by joining Beth in cooking up a meal with some of what they've got… which winds up being a potato and carrot stew.

They gather around a table in the common room, everyone eating together for the first time in what was probably months. This should be something… memorable, he supposes. Even as he forks into his bowl, there's barely a word being said. The mood's just… bland, and he gets why but… it doesn't have to be. Marshall drums his fingers on the table before standing up suddenly, drawing everyone's eyes. He snorts softly before raising his hands up in mock defeat, "Hold up. I got something I think we could use." Marshall only grins at the confused looks he's getting before jogging up to his cell real quick and coming back with two bottles of wine, one in each hand, "I think it's time we break out these bad boys."

"Marshall," Hershel starts up, and Marshall figures he's going to warn him about drinking with a fresh wound but he gives him a pleading look that manages to stop him.

"Come on," Marshall sets the bottles down on the table before grabbing a few glasses from the shelves, "When was the last time we actually celebrated something?" Pulling out the corkscrew from his pocket, he works on popping open the first bottle, "I can't think of any, but look… We lost people, yeah. We could've lost even more people," Marshall spots Maggie clutch onto Glenn a little harder at that and pours some wine into a glass, swirling it a bit. "But… we didn't, thanks to Hershel. And Daryl. And Bob." He raises his glass at each of them, "So I say we celebrate. How about it?"

It takes a bit of convincing, but eventually he manages to get everyone to agree to it. Marshall gets a few more glasses and passes them around with a big grin on his face before taking his seat while the bottle circles the table, everyone pouring themselves a glass. The only one to hold back was Bob, but he figures he has his reasons. Rick's the last one to get his hand on the bottle. His gaze wanders over to Marshall once his glass is full. "So, what're we toasting to?"

Marshall mulls it over, but Daryl's the one to chime in, "To survivin'."

"There we have it." He flashes Daryl a smile before raising his glass at everyone, "To surviving."

The phrase echoes through the building while everyone clangs glasses with each other, and it's as if the air itself got lighter. Suddenly conversations were picking up all over, and they wind up chatting about silly things while they eat and drink. Glenn brought up wanting a vacation and some of them share their ideal destination. When it was his turn, all he had to say was that he'd be happy anywhere that had snow. That earned him a collective groan – he was one of the few people at the table that had actually managed to visit another state. Given that he's starting to get a little buzzed, he raises his glass at the little victory.

As the sun started to set, someone brought in a stereo and put some music on, blasting country music. It's not really his favorite, but seeing everyone actually smiling and laughing with each other is more than enough to make up for it. He's taking it slow, though. This wine looks like it's the expensive kind, so he figured he'd try and enjoy it… plus, Hershel's keeping a silent tab on him to make sure he doesn't go overboard. It's enough to have Marshall laugh once he caught on, but he can make do with the faint pleasant haze the alcohol's giving him. It's the company that matters this time. Not like a few months back…

And then it got interesting. A song came on, and both Beth and Maggie leaped up as it came on. Maggie grabbed Glenn and pulled him aside to… dance? Yeah. That's what she's doing, and watching Glenn fumble while Maggie tries to teach him the moves to the dance has everyone laughing. Marshall was watching the show with a grin until Beth taps him on the shoulder, donning her most innocent smile. "Oh, hell no." He barks out with a laugh, but Beth is persistent when she wants to be.

"Come on," She tugs at his elbow, a flush coloring her cheeks, "Please?"

"Ugh." Marshall groans half-heartedly before setting down his glass, "Alright." Beth practically bounces as she leads him along to their impromptu dance floor, but like he tells her, this isn't the kind of music that he knows how to dance to. There's a ruckus of laughter that he shrugs off while he clumsily follows Beth steps. Just when he thinks he's free, another song comes up and Beth takes him for a ride by switching up the dance, prompting him to give her a small twirl. When the song comes to an end, he wiggles away from her with a smile, letting Carl take his spot since he looked more than a little eager for a turn.

With a shake of his head, he wanders back to the table and scoops up his glass, taking a small sip before nodding at the corner where Rick sat with Daryl nearby. Marshall finds himself back in his cell, glancing around lazily before spotting his rucksack sitting on top of his bed. Who'd brought it in? The thought has him crinkling his nose, but he ignores it and sets his glass down on the nightstand before poking through the pockets. Grinning, he pulls out the silver chain and runs his fingers down the grooves. It's too crowded for him to just… walk up and give it to Daryl, so he figures he'll just leave it on his perch.

He just needs a little more liquid courage. Just a bit. He winds up downing what was left of his glass in one gulp before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It's now or never. Empty glass in tow, he sidles over to Daryl's corner on the catwalk, trying to figure out where to fucking put the gift. Should he just… put it on the bed? He pouts the more he thinks about it. This shouldn't be so hard. Maybe it's the wine… With a shake of his head, he makes up his mind and hangs it off the hunter's crossbow leaning against the wall, the small metal anchor swinging slightly. There. Now he just has to hope Daryl realizes it's from him.

Just as he's turning to head back down to the common room, he realizes Daryl's eyes are on him. Oh… Well, at least he doesn't have to worry about him thinking it's from somebody else. He feels a flush creep onto his cheeks as he ducks his head and makes his way back to join the others, trying to ignore the hunter's curious gaze. That… that's a concern for tomorrow. Maybe. Probably. He clears his throat nervously, unable to focus on everyone when he _feels_ Daryl's eyes on him. Fuck… Marshall chances a glance up, half expecting a glare after what happened earlier today, but all he manages to see before the hunter collects himself is... confusion? Suspicion? He can't tell. The rest of the evening isn't as fun after that.

* * *

_A/N__: _So, as it stands, I'm guessing Part I will end on chapter 20. I'll leave the poll up until then. Also, yes, I am stretching the timeline a bit here.


	19. Contact

**Chapter 19: Contact**

_A/N__:_ Thanks to those of you leaving reviews! You're all lovely!

Conflicted Guest, welcome back! I've actually been keeping my eye on it ~ You can thank Bradly93 for always being the one to pull me back whenever I started to stray! Honestly, I'd thought about writing a fanservice chapter for the 1-year mark, but I'm not sure how I feel about it… I've been so patient until now, I don't want to ruin it, y'know?

Chapter 2 used to be a flashback chapter depicting what had happened to Marshall. You're not the first person to ask me about it, so… I might rewrite it and post it separately for everyone that's curious, but, uh, not here. I'd have to bump the story back up to M if I did that, and I don't want to do that just yet. That's for Part II. Will what happened to him come up again? Oh yeah. Especially with how the poll's turning out.

It's funny you mention that 'cause originally I was going to alternate between Daryl and Marsh's POVs, but I asked around and it settled on just Marsh. I think retelling it from Daryl's POV would be a fun thing to try, but… I'm already neglecting one of my other stories with the roll I've been on here. I wouldn't want to neglect this one too!

* * *

"Why do you have so much junk?"

Marshall looks up from his spot by the foot of his bed where he's sifting through all the stuff he's scavenged the last few months. He hadn't even heard the younger Grimes stepping into his room. Marshall snorts a little and smirks at Carl, "I don't remember you complaining when I brought you those comic books that one time." Michonne was the one who made sure to always bring back comics whenever she found them for Carl, but Marshall did him a solid one time.

"Comics aren't junk." Marshall rolls his eyes with a smile at Carl's little mutter as he sits down beside him. It's uh… a little weird. Carl doesn't usually come to him unless he needed something on the outside. His winds up watching the boy as his eyes skim over all the items cluttering the floor. Eventually, Carl sets his attention on a ragged, beat up doll with one of its button eyes missing. "See, now this is junk." He grabs it and turns it over in his hands, giving Marshall an odd like while at it, "Why do you even have this?"

"Pull the string."

Carl damn near jumps from his spot when the doll starts screeching an ungodly noise, and Marshall just laughs at him, not even bothered by the glare the boy's giving him. Man, if that wasn't worth using some of its charge. "It's broken," He manages between his laughs, "But that makes it all the better, yeah?" Marshall collects himself and grabs the doll before miming as though he were going to toss it like a grenade, "Just pull the string, lob it, and watch the walkers chase after it. Or scare the living shit out of someone. Both work." He grins at Carl before setting the doll back down and eying the boy carefully. "But, I doubt that's why you're here. What's up?"

"Are those glowsticks?"

Marshall swats his hand away when he reaches for them. "Yeah. No touching, though. They're industrial-grade, not the kind they give at school dances. Now, what's up?" He repeats.

Carl clams up at that and Marshall starts to get a little worried about what he even came here to talk about. Ah… fuck. Was this going to be about Patrick? Shit. That's the only thing he can think of. The two of them were practically inseparable when he was still alive and kicking… He was the only other kid around his age. Eventually, Carl clears his throat nervously, looking anywhere but at him, and… is that a blush on his cheeks? "Can I… ask you a question?" A beat passes, "About girls?"

Oh my God.

It takes almost all of his willpower not to break out into a laugh the second Marshall hears that. Jesus Christ. Where is Rick when he needs him? "You're not… asking me to have 'the talk' with you, are you?"

"No!" Carl glares at him, but his face is still beet red, "I'm not a kid! I know how sex works. It's just…" Oh God. What did he do to deserve this? "How do you know if a girl's, y'know… interested in you?"

Marshall blinks at the question, forgetting his own discomfort for a second. The only other girl near his age is Lizzie… "Why do you ask?" Carl doesn't answer, and Marshall only stares at him even harder. Then it hits him. Last night, when they were dancing… Oh. _Oh._ Marshall makes a sound of realization before letting out a short laugh, "Carl, I hate to break it to you, but, uh, Beth's already got Zach." Carl pales at that, and Marshall tries not to smirk, "You don't want to bark up that tree."

"But –"

"No 'but's, man." Marshall gives him a stern look before picking out some items to pack for tomorrow's run, "The world might've gone to shit, but you've got to respect people's relationships. You can _try_ talking to her if you want, but she's already committed. Plus…" He shoots the boy a teasing smile, "Sorry, but he's got the nearly-twenty thing going for him."

Carl frowns, a little disappointed, "What does age have to do with it?"

"Everything. Especially around your age." Marshall responds simply.

It's silent for a few seconds, and Marshall figures that's the end of the conversation, but then Carl asks a question that makes him drop his bag. "How old were you when you first had sex?"

"Oh my God." Marshall stares at Carl before clearing his throat awkwardly. "Shouldn't you be asking your dad about this?"

"No…" Carl murmurs softly, "That would just be awkward."

"And this isn't?" Marshall laughs before rubbing at the back of his neck. God. He doesn't even want to think about what Rick would do if he found out he was having this kind of conversation with his son, but… he's out in the garden, and so long as no one's eavesdropping… It wouldn't hurt. Carl's just a curious kid. "Uh. It was around my sixteenth birthday. He was one of the neighbor's kids. We went to school together."

"Oh." Carl says quietly, and Marshall's almost ready to dare him to say something about it, but when he looks, Carl just seems pensive. "How did you know? That he was interested?"

Well, that's a surprise. Maybe that's a perk of the apocalypse: people don't seem to give a fuck about _who_ you fuck anymore. Or maybe Rick just did a good job at raising a non-bigoted child, but Marshall's not complaining. There's more important things to worry about. Like the walkers. Yeah. Marshall blinks before scratching at his scruff absentmindedly, "The same way you would with a girl, I guess. You start doing more stuff together. Giving each other shit. It's usually the touch that gives you away though."

"Touch?"

"Yeah." Marshall smiles softly before sealing up his rucksack, patting it down. "When you like someone, you usually try to find any excuse to get closer. That tends to be what gives people away…" Marshall smirks at Carl and gives him a knowing look, "Like how fast you got up yesterday to dance with Beth." Carl seems about ready to fight him on that but Marshall just laughs and waves him off, "You should probably find Glenn if you have more questions. He can probably help you more than me… with girls, at least. Hopefully. Anyways, I'm sure you've got stuff to do. I know I do."

Carl nods a few times before hopping onto his feet and giving him a quick "Thanks." while stepping out of his room. All Marshall can do once he's alone is sigh. Why the Hell did Carl come to him of all people? He crinkles his nose a bit before tossing his rucksack up onto his bunk and scooching aside to pull out the small trunk he kept under it. God. It's while he's shoving all his shit back into the trunk that he realizes he really does have a lot of junk. Old habits die hard, he figures. Used to be that he'd collect all the things that he figured could come in handy one way or another. Still does, even if he might not need to. It's kinda… wired into him now in the same way he can wake up at the first sign of trouble.

Marshall mumbles something to himself before standing up and stretching a bit. It's almost noon, he figures. They were going to have a… funeral, of sorts. They'd lost a lot of people. It felt a bit too cold to just bury the dead and leave it at that. Hershel volunteered to oversee the ceremony, but… Something just feels off about him ever since the epidemic, but he doesn't pry about it. He saved them all. That's all that matters. Digging through his crate of clean clothes, he pulls out the one nice shirt he's got left. Hell, it's practically brand new and the only dress shirt he's got on him. If there was ever any occasion to at least try and dress up… It'd be now, he figures.

With a weary sigh, he slides out of his t-shirt and slips on the black dress shirt, making a face at the scratchy texture before buttoning it up. He even goes and tucks it into the jeans he puts on afterwards. It's probably the closest he's come to looking like he used to before the dead started walking, and the thought makes him scoff a little, but… it doesn't have to be a bad thing. Remembering who you used to be… That sounds more like something he should be doing. So, he decides to borrow that electric trimmer Michonne had scavenged for Rick – the one the guys started using since Rick hasn't – and wanders over the locker room.

Leaning over the sink, he stares at his own reflection, actually stopping to take a good look at himself since… well, a long time. He looks almost… normal. You know, asides from the bandage he's still got crossing his forehead. One thing's for sure: he looks a hell of a lot better than he did before he got here. Smiling softly at that, he turns the trimmer on and makes quick work of the scruff on his face, buzzing it down to a faint stubble. Their toast from the night before rings in his head as he sets down the trimmer. "To surviving." He echoes, nodding slowly at himself before heading out to the field.

The ceremony was a short thing. There weren't as many people attending as he'd expected… Probably wanted to deal with their grief in their own way, on their own time, but Marshall was there. So was everyone from their cell block, though some joined later than others. And then… just as quickly as they'd all gathered, everyone scattered to go back their business, but Marshall found himself staring at the cross with Patrick's glasses hanging off of it, lost in his thoughts. At least he was until he feels a pair of eyes on him. Marshall shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath before turning and spotting Rick and Daryl watching him near the edges of where the group had been. Of course it's them. He gives them a curt nod before rolling up his sleeves to his elvows. He's got a job to do.

He'd volunteered to take over Carol's duties, which meant that today, he found himself scrubbing clothes as clean as he could get them. He doesn't mind it. Hell, he'd helped Carol with it before plenty of times, but this time it's just… quiet. She's not dead, but it might as well be easier to think of her that way. The odds of running into her again or Rick forgiving her are so fucking low. It's a smaller world now, but… Rick's got his mind set, and apparently Rick's word is law again. Other members of the council agreed that he'd made the right decision, but it doesn't sit right with Marshall. Carol made a mistake… She took a chance to try and protect everyone. It just makes him think about that old saying about what you were willing to do to protect the ones you love.

Tyreese and the girls are the only ones who don't know the truth. It was decided that it'd be easier to tell them a different story… For now, at least. Especially Tyreese. They've no way of knowing how he might react if they told him, but his determination to find Karen and David's killer only seems to grow with each passing day… They're going to have to tell him eventually. Sooner rather than later at the rate he's going. Marshall sighs softly before pinning the laundry on the clotheslines. With the clouds they've got today, they'll probably be dry by morning. He grumbles to himself about having to wake up earlier to make sure everyone had their clean clothes in time before joining the others for dinner, but he doesn't really have anything to say.

Which… apparently is something unusual, considering all the concerned looks he's getting while he's just trying to eat. He offers them a sheepish smile, and that manages to stop anyone from coming to ask him what's wrong. He's just… a little lost in his head today. His talk with Carl set the gears in his head rolling, especially after last night. That look Daryl had given him… Shit. There's a knot forming in his stomach just thinking about it, but he eats through it before excusing himself. First watch is his tonight, so he stops by his room and grabs his gear, making sure to pocket a case of cigarettes and his lighter before making his way to the watchtower.

His boots clang loudly against the metal rungs of the ladder and he hoists himself up, shutting the hatch behind him. A wistful little sigh escapes his lips as he sets his bow to lean against the wall before settling into one of the chairs they'd brought up there. He kicks his feet up onto the railing, watching few rays of sunlight shining through some patches in the clouds. Damn it. Why can't he clear his head? His hand roams to his quiver and he slides out the bolt Daryl had given him long ago. That one was given to him out of necessity… The knife though…

Marshall slides the bolt back into his quiver before pulling out the knife, taking a closer look at it. It's not your average knife – Daryl could've just taken any other blade and given it to him. This one though… This doesn't look like any generic knife. It looks handcrafted, and the grip looks like it's made out of polished bone. It's a sleek blade. It's also remarkably… him. He frowns slightly, turning the blade over in his hands a few times before sheathing it again. Once the sun starts to set, he turns on the small lantern kept in the corner. They used to use candles, but without any glass, well… the slightest gust of wind put them out.

That's one of the things he enjoys about taking watch, though. The wind. Usually it's just a light breeze, but this evening it's a little stronger, swaying the trees and overgrown grass surrounding the prison. It's relaxing, and Marshall takes some comfort in it, eventually moving from the chair to stand and lean against the busted up railing. His eyes are looked on the setting sun, watching it hide behind the treeline. He startles when he hears the hatch open behind him and he turns to spot Daryl's head poking out of it. "You need a haircut." He says before turning back to the view, chuckling slightly when he hears the hunter huff something in response. "Something you needed?"

"Nah," Daryl murmurs before settling in beside him near the railing, "Ain't like ya to be so quiet." Marshall glances to his side, watching the hunter look out at scenery. He doesn't say anything more, but there's something in those slate blue eyes that he can't make out. He gets what he's aiming for. He's giving him the space to talk if he wants to. Marshall smiles softly at him before pulling out his small case of cigarettes and handing one over to the hunter. "I've just been thinking a lot."

"No fuckin' wonder."

"Is that a joke, Daryl?" Marshall grins to his side, watching as the hunter tries to hide the faint smirk on his lips. "Ha, fucking, ha." He snorts a little before flicking the lighter alive and lighting both of their cigarettes, taking care not to let the wind blow it out. The two of them are quiet for a while and Marshall finds himself shifting a little closer to the hunter without realizing. This is the kind of comfort he's gotten used to. He sighs softly before leaning forward over the railing, billowing out a trail of smoke while his eyes land on the graveyard.

"This got somethin' to do with Pat?" Daryl asks gruffly, and Marshall shifts his gaze over to him, looking at him with tired eyes. A faint shimmer catches his eyes and he glances down to spot something shining beneath the sleeveless brown flannel shirt Daryl's got on tonight. It's the chain he gave him. Marshall's lips part open, looking back up at the hunter who seems to realize what he noticed and shifts uncomfortably, adjusting his shirt so that it no longer shows. He didn't think he'd actually keep it, much less wear it…

Marshall lets his head hang for a second before looking away, "A little, I guess." His eyes wander back towards the graveyard and he points at it with the butt of his cigarette. Twenty-five graves in total. It's a little morbid to have so many. "That could've been me." Marshall smiles grimly when he spots Daryl watching his hands, checking to see if they're shaking. "Don't worry, I'm not freaking out."

"Man, why're you even thinkin' like that?" Daryl sounds like he's scolding him, and Marshall can't help but laugh and shoot a look from the side, but the hunter actually looks serious and the grin fades fast. Shit. "Thought you were done with that shit."

"I was - I am. I'm just being real here, Daryl." He meets the hunter's gaze with a hard look, "I could've died. I could've been one of those graves out there, but I'm not." His gaze falters and he rolls his head slightly, looking out at the darkening sky, "I guess I'm just… I don't know. Shook up, I guess." He scratches at the edge of the bandage by his ear before letting his eyes drop. His hands pretty close to Daryl's… and he'd told Carl that touch is what gives you away. Maybe it'd be easier to just… reach out, rather than say anything.

He gulps nervously, sparing a quick glance at Daryl, making sure he's not watching him before slowly creeping his hand closer until the sides of their hands touch. There's an unspoken question with the gesture, giving him an opportunity to pull away, but Daryl stays put, even if his shoulders start to square and his eyes are purposely locked ahead. So… Marshall lets his fingers inch onto Daryl's hand slowly until he covers it with his own and watches the way the hunter's lip press into a tight line.

Daryl's knuckles go white from how tight he'd gripping the railing. "'s it a fuck you want?" He asks suddenly, dangerously, his eyes narrowing at Marshall with mistrust. "'s that what this was for?" He tugs the chain suddenly, drawing it into view, "Butter me up?"

"What the hell, Daryl?" Marshall pulls his hand back as though he's been burned, and Daryl's eyes soften when he sees the hurt on his face, "Daryl, I… Is that really what you think? I don't see you as some piece of meat, man… I care about you - no point in lying about that. You took a chance on me. You watched my back. You were there for me, and I've tried to be there for you." He reaches out tentatively and grabs the chain hanging around his neck, thumbing at the anchor, "I got you this because you keep me grounded." Marshall takes a step back then, giving the other man some space and taking a drag as he goes back to leaning against the railing.

Daryl mutters under his breath before putting out his cigarette, looking like he's about ready to run again. "'m not good at this sort of shit."

"Just…" He meet Daryl's eyes with a sad smile as he turns to leave, "I'm here, okay? I'm here for whatever you want me for." It's not much, but he hopes he gets his message across. And if the lost look on the hunter's face was anything judge off of, it did. Daryl stares at him for a few seconds before nodding and climbing down the steps, leaving Marshall to take a shaky drag of his cigarette, hoping he didn't just do something stupid and fuck everything up. It's going to be a long watch.

* * *

_A/N__: _I spent the last I don't know how many hours making a playlist for Marsh over on 8tracks. Y'all should take a listen /lithophene/m-a-r-s-h-a-l-l/. Fair warning, though: it's about 50 minutes long. Vote now on the poll over on my profile if you haven't yet! This is your last chance!


	20. Notice!

**Notice**

_A/N:_ I'm so sorry for disappearing like I did, everyone. That was absolutely uncool of me, but I honestly got caught up in a really bad headspace and couldn't snap out of it. I know it's taboo to post a notice like this as a new chapter, but I have no other way to communicate with y'all, and I figured I might as well let y'all know what's up. So... I'm feeling a lot better lately. Things are really turning around as of late and I feel my muse coming back to me, and I've got new ideas sprouting up with how to deal with the coming chapter. I figure I owe it to y'all to give you a choice: I can either keep the original ending to chapter 20/Part I which is the exact opposite of a happy ending, or I can go with an alternate approach that will be sickeningly cute and establish the ship now rather than later. Option B will end Part I on a light note, but that just means Part II will start off even rougher. Drop me a review and let me know what y'all want – I'll go with the popular vote. Meanwhile, I'll see what I can get written.

P.S: To that last guest, Hooked, I honestly don't know what's up with the links. All of the images are still up, but it looks like FF itself broke links on profiles or disabled them entirely. There isn't much I can do except forward you to my profile on Ao3.


End file.
